Party Cat

Chris Miller

March 2006

My cat can talk. I’m not referring to a parrot that repeats the same three or four phrases either. Abby can read newspaper articles. Sometimes we have sharp-witted discourses about politics, anthropology, and religion. Last week she taught me how to play chess. She’d been talking and playing board games for a few months now. I don’t know if I’d call her a genius, but she was more intelligent than any cat that I’d ever known, that’s for sure.

On the day before the office Christmas party, I called my cat into the kitchen, and vented my frustrations. "It’s a goddamned annoyance," I told her, petting her silky orange coat. "I have to go to this goddamned party tomorrow."

While I sat at the kitchen table sipping black coffee, Abby responded by licking her back foot. My cat was a good listener.

Perhaps sensing my frustration, Abby inquired, "How come you hate Christmas so much?"

"A few reasons," I said.

"Such as?"

"Too commercial, for one thing," I said. "After Halloween all the candy’s off the store shelves and in goes the Christmas crud."

Actually, it wasn’t so much Christmas I hated. Just the parties really irked me. I didn’t like the people I worked with. Their voices didn’t sound right and their arms and legs didn’t move properly. There was a falsity about their gestures, their hands awkward. I’d been around imbeciles like these guys my whole life. At work, the only thing separating my workspace from theirs was a short partition, which did nothing to keep me from hearing their idle prattle. The men most admired by the women were the very same men who had faces that reminded me of a glass of milk.

I continued my anti-Yule diatribe. "Let me tell you, December’s a hectic month already. Rush-rush-rush. Buy-buy-buy. Sit in traffic for-fuckin’-ever. Scuffles at the Wal-Mart checkout counter. Demolition derbies in the mall parking lot. Who can enjoy the holidays?"

"That’s quite a speech," said Abby.

"Well, Christmas is quite a holiday. It’s become just another chore, a contest to outdo the next guy," I said.

"If you hate Christmas, why do you insist on putting up a tree every year?" she asked.

In our living room was a green Christmas tree that I’d picked up last year at Sears. The tree was decorated with tinsel, silvery garland, ornate glass ornaments, a white-winged angel on top, and various other crappy, dollar-store trinkets.

"It’s what people do," I said.

"Yeah, if nothing else, trees are good for scratching," said Abby.

"It’s easy to turn anti-Christian at Christmastime, isn’t it?" I said, crooking my head around the corner to see the tree in the next room. "Look at that tree. It’s supposed to represent Christmas, which is what, a celebration of the birth of Christ, the Son of God? Yet all of us defy God daily in our addictions to TV, fast food, caffeine, alcohol, pornography, anti-psychotic drugs, video lottery terminals, and avarice. Every one of us is a fraud."

"Fake tree, fake life," said Abby.

"Last year’s party, Abby, you should’ve seen them. The men looked ludicrous in their bright Christmas sweaters. Women wearing slutty gowns and choice jewelry."

They were makeshift Babes in Toyland. My fellow workers were a cluster of rich, boring, obvious folks, guys with cardboard faces with a couple of sugarplums poked in for eyes, the overfed, Oprah-loving women boasting how wonderfully well-behaved their children were, even though they were little brats like everybody else’s kids.

"I can see it now, Abby, when I get there. All around the room everybody will chat nonsense about work, their favourite TV shows, vacationing in the Dominican, and how much they detest President Bush."

"I don’t like Bush either," said Abby.

"Well, sure, nobody does. But you don’t waste a whole goddamned evening talking about him," I said.

"True enough," said Abby.

"They never say anything original."

One | Two