Seven Days of Catsmas

For various reasons, including the high cost of airfare and the high stress related to certain family members, I stayed in the relative vicinity of my New England home for the late-December holiday season this year. While it is unusual for me not to spend Christmas with my family of origin, it is not unprecedented. A few years ago, I visited a friend in Austin, TX, and spent my vacation drinking whiskey and watching peacocks wander around a park. But usually I am with one of my parents and at least a couple of siblings and some kind of brightly lit tree, etc.

This year I decided that rather than just sit around my house alone during my time off work I would make myself useful, so I asked around to see if anyone in the area needed house or pet sitting and if I could live in their house like it was my vacation home. It just seemed like a good way to take care of myself and also my friends and also their animal friends. And I got so many responses! In the end, I booked myself at four places with the intention of riding throughout the land, spreading joy and petting cats all along Rte. 5 or I-91 or whatever.

As I write this, I'm in the middle of Catsmas Tour 2014, in a rural VT schoolhouse with a wood stove and two furry friends chasing each other around. You have left me candy, eggnog, play-doh, vets' phone numbers, and more. I have scooped poop. I have listened to your Wu-Tang tapes. And I have written you a song. Good luck trying to sing it.

On the 7th day of Catsmas, you all gave to Cat Santa:
7 furry felines
6 Goose Island Festivity Ales (okay I got those myself)
5 logs a-burning
4 wifi passwords
3 hours waiting (for takeout from the Chinese restaurant on Christmas Eve)
2 cool keychains
and a fish on top of a fridge.

Also, this happened:

If Santa Claus (1959) has taught me anything, it's that visiting homes at Christmastime
means occasionally getting in prank fights with gay, joker-pants Satan.