the Dalaverse

Man, it is cold outside. Huzzah for winter! Do you think if I wished hard enough for snow for Christmas, I could change the forecast?

The holidays are a time for fat burritos covered with queso sauce from CalTor.

I still cannot find Empire of Ivory which I was in the middle of, so I stuck The Cat Who Came for Christmas in my purse today. This is one of my security blanket books . My grandmother gave it to me for Christmas when I was eleven, which I know because she inscribed the year on the first page, as is her appalling habit. This inscription also says "for your white cat Sugar," so it is less appalling than most. I had a habit of rereading it every Christmas (and the cover shows it, poor bedraggled thing), up until we lost my cat Snake the summer just before I started college. I tried a couple of times, but I could never get past the first few chapters.

Sugar was the white cat, you see, but Snake was my Christmas cat.* Snake loved Christmas, a lot - like, more than your average small child who still believes in Santa. Every year when we brought the tree home, he would be waiting at the door to greet it, and then sit watching us critically while we set it up and strung the lights. What he was really waiting for was the decorating, as he could make himself a nest of the tissue paper from the ornament boxes. When we'd finished and shooed him away, he would simply settle on the tree skirt under the branches, content to rule his tiny twinkling forest. (True, he used to climb the tree and knock ornaments off, but that was only during his kittenhood.) Both of the cats knew that Christmas morning brought snacks, catnip toys and fragrant tins of Sheba (we had a stocking for each pet. I've mentioned that I'm an only child, yes?) But for Snake, the appeal of Christmas went far beyond treats. It meant his people were all home together for more consecutive hours than at any other time of year. It meant he got to wear a great big bell so that we'd instantly know when his impressive bulk was about to approach for adoration. The dogs were not bright enough to recognize the Christmas spirit once it had left their stomachs; Sugar was fairly indifferent to holiday cheer. This was Snake's time.

So reading about the stray cat Cleveland Amory rescued from a New York City alleyway on Christmas Eve was somewhat difficult after my Christmas cat was gone. It's not exactly easy now, but I'm pretty determined to finally resume the ritual. It's not a perfect book - there's a sexist comment here and there - but Amory was a tireless animal activist, and his love for animals in general and for Polar Bear in particular is plain on every page. They're buried next to each other on the rescue ranch he established. Also, I would dearly love to hear what Amory would have said of Sarah Palin/She Who Hunts Wolves From Helicopters.

I was talking about Snake, but one passage reminds me much more of Sugar. In his first few days in Amory's apartment, Polar Bear manages to disappear. After a rigorous search, he is finally discovered wedged into the dishwasher machinery. When I was in elementary school, Sugar pulled a similar magician's trick. My babysitter had rescued a young mutt named Freckles whom I then fell in love with, and my parents were persuaded to allow this dog to spend a night at our house to see it if would work out (it didn't, because our old Peke-poo Samantha would not tolerate any other dogs in the house. This was the single greatest heartbreak of my adolescence). Snake disliked Freckles' energy, but he considered a few swats on the nose a sufficient indication of his feelings. Sugar, on the other hand, was compelled to hide. Which she did, for three whole days. By that time the dog had gone and I was pretty much frantic. That night - and I swear I am not making this up - I was actually sitting at the old Apple in the basement, typing up 'Lost Cat' posters, when I heard a thud from the laundry room. Sugar came sauntering out and up to her food dish. From her dusty, dirty coat and the state of the laundry room, we concluded that she had climbed up and hidden in the air conditioning vents (it was springtime so neither the air nor the heat was on).

I am very behind on my Christmas entertainment. I've not yet watched "Love Actually," "The Ref," or "Prancer" (I am, of course, saving "A Christmas Story" for the traditional TBS marathon). Or "Amends," that oh-so-cheesy Christmas ep of BtVS where Angel tries to kill himself by sunlight, which at the time seemed stupid. If only we knew, Internets, if only we knew the suicide-by-sparkle vampires that were yet to come. I hope to go see "Marley and Me" the day after Christmas, or at least as soon as I can set aside an entire day for sobbing into my hands.





*most of you know about this because I've posted extensively about Snake before, but there are some for whom should be a new tale.