Bob Slays Christmas

Yo, Bob here.

They also call me Bib, Bibbidy, Robert, Bob Cat, Mr. Bubbles, El Bob, the Murderous Marshmallow, Captain Fluffy Butt, Bubby, Turdbucket, Tut, and some other things that I probably shouldn't repeat (usually right after I help them get rid of excess breakables--I'm considerate that way).

Anyway, I'm here to tell you why this is my favorite time of the year.

Boxes, amiright?
Those Amazon people are so thoughtful about putting random stuff inside the boxes to help them hold their shape. Then my peeps take out all the random stuff so I can sit in them. Even in July, it always seems like just when I get bored with one box, another one's on its way...but Christmastime? I can't hardly shred one box before another arrives.

Most of the year, I just don't get my peeps. Well, Nana I get perfectly. We both like naps and cuddling in front of the TV and she always slips me people food. But mostly my peeps are just plain weird. They don't understand why running around and breaking things at night makes me need to eat at precisely 4:45 a.m. They don't get the importance of running outside for approximately 30 seconds to check on whether the outside world is still big and scary (it is, but I keep hoping it'll turn back into the living room someday--you have to stay optimistic). The older two kids have awesome velvet-lined boxes where they keep these wooden screech demons called violas but every time I try to go in there for a nap, the lid falls down on me and I roll over and wind up on the floor. Embarrassing. Also, whenever I try to express my feelings by breaking glassware, I get yelled at. MY FEELINGS ARE VALID, PEOPLE! (And much more important than that figurine.)

They even put a nice, soft
rug under it, just for me.

But, Christmas, now, that's a time when they do their best to make it up to me for a year's worth of Stop it, Bob! and No, Bob! and Bad kitty! and I'm gonna put your furry butt outside, Bob! 

First, as I said, is the constant parade of boxes, big and small, all arriving just for my sitting pleasure. Also for my shredding pleasure, because there's nothing so glorious on the claws as corrugated cardboard, except possibly human hands as the silly peeps unwittingly get their mitts too close to my box fortress. That box is mine, peeps.

Second is the tree. Now, as I said, outdoors is all big and scary. I think there's a goldendoodle next door that might eat my soul. So it's really thoughtful of them to bring me a tree inside. 

They do kinda suck at picking trees, though, because this one doesn't reach the ceiling, and there's no bark to dig into. And after I kept trying to climb it last year, all of the bottom branches bend permanently down, which is downright pathetic. It's like the tree is calling me fat. IT'S FUR, DAMMIT! Stupid wimpy tree.

Anyway, they try to make up for the pathetic tree by hanging it full of shiny, colorful cat toys. Boxes and boxes full of cat toys. Unfortunately, they really cheaped out last year and hung all these glass cat toys that broke after a single WHAP across the floors. Then, of course, they got all dramatic and spoiled the holiday buzz by yelling at me, as though it's my fault they went disposable. Seriously? You call that an heirloom? If I can't fling it up in the air with one paw, bounce it off the wall, and send it flying to the floor to knock against the desk without it breaking, it really wasn't worth keeping anyway. They should be thanking me.

So after a few weeks of that, they wised up and invested in some non-breakable cat toys. Jingle bells--that make a cool ringing sound when you bat them across the floor and whack them into a bedroom door at 3 a.m. Shiny glitter balls--that bounce and roll under furniture, where they will be discovered well into spring. (Note--the peeps were all proud of themselves and said these were unbreakable, which I sort of took as a challenge. Turns out you can break them, just takes a little more effort.)

You have to sneak up on the shiny glitter ball.
First, you walk away, look elsewhere, make it think
you've given up. Then, when Mom puts the camera
away, POUNCE! Those things can bounce two feet up!

Now, we get to play this exciting game for the next month. I systematically strip the bottom half of the tree of cat toys, often at 3 a.m., then, after the tree is nice and bare, the peeps go around the house and collect all the cat toys (the ones they can find, anyway) every weekend to hang them back on the tree just for me. It's like they're constantly restocking my personal hunting preserve!

Observe the tree in the semi-barren part of its life cycle. I seem to have missed a few, gotta get on that.

Speaking of stocking--they hang these stocking things from the mantle. They sort of dangle, and they're made of this furry yarn stuff (mine is the blue and green striped one--yay, catnip!). The stockings are just at the perfect height where I can launch myself up and latch on. If they were only attached by something stronger than Command Strips, I could then climb them, ultimately achieving my lifelong dream of breaking all the stuff on the mantle. But, bummer--Command Strips won't hold me AND the stocking (I SAID IT'S JUST FUR!). 

The empty space between Bruce's stocking and my so-called sister Daisy's stocking? Nothing to see there!
(Because that's where the purple stocking was that I just pulled off the mantle and have my nose in.
Mom's kinda rude--she didn't even give Betty catnip last year, evidently.)

On Christmas morning, my stocking usually gets filled with a cat toy and some drugs (catnip is my drug of choice). Then, for whatever reason, the peeps pack it all away and things get back to normal.

Joke's on them, though--I know where I hid all the shiny glitter balls. Christmas is gonna last a long, long time.