Christmas in New Zealand 2019

Early this year, my staff members began acting highly suspicious. At first, I assumed they were plotting another rearrangement in furniture. They don’t do that often, but when they do it takes me days to remap the layout, and they give me no warning before doing it, so it can be highly disruptive.

My suspicions were confirmed (or so I thought) when they invited strange people into my home to take away significant pieces of my furniture. This happened over the course of several days. Strangers would come in, take something away, and my staff acted as if nothing odd had happened. I couldn’t imagine that they just hadn’t noticed, but whenever I asked about it, they would repeat the same three phrases:

• “You’re such a pretty kitty.”
• “What’s wrong? are you hungry?”
• “Get your tail out of my face.”

Obviously, there was no persuading them to explain what they were up to.

On a side note: there was a mouse in the flat. I chased it for a whole 10 seconds, monitored it for 20 seconds, and then lost interest. My staff acted like it was my job to catch it, but through stern inaction, I set them straight.

From Shifty to Shifting

One morning, my staff finally pounced. After weeks of conspiracy, they grabbed me, put me into their terrible box-on-wheels, and drove us all into the ocean. Literally.

The box-on-wheels was packed, and my staff took up most of the front, relegating me to the back with all of our luggage. I protested, I threatened to call the SPCA, I resorted to my training as a dramatist to act like I was terrified, I legitimately begged, to no avail. Within minutes, my staff drove onto a platform floating on the water, cryptically assured me that it was impossible for cats to get sea sick (unsurprising, since they hadn’t fed me yet), and then abandoned me for hours.

When they got back, I could smell their lingering guilt, even though they’d tried to cover it up with hot chips, coffee, and a lavish breakfast. They truly have no shame.

After this elaborate dance with death, we remained in the box-on-wheels for 3 days.

Three. Days.

We stopped each night, first in a one-room shack. I made it clear that this was not to be our new home.

Happily my staff listened, because the next morning we got back into the box-on-wheels for another day of constant motion.

On the second night, we stopped in a big house with a very nice and loving lady in it. She spoke cat fluently and even taught some rudimentary terms to my staff. The house was filled with furniture and fun objects to manoeuver around. It was the most fun I’d had in years.

There must have been some miscommunication between me and my staff, however, because on the third day we left this small paradise.

Bout of madness

By this time, I knew that my staff had lost touch with their own mental faculties. I insisted, mostly by seizing control of the box-on-wheels, that we stop and return to the big house. When we did at last stop, my staff flatly refused to go back, and instead shifted us into a small, empty cottage. My staff slept on the floor. For 2 weeks straight. I guess they expected me to do the same, so I just slept on them instead.

I surveyed the whole of the cottage, and it was entirely empty but for a few tables. I was able to jump onto the tables, but they were annoyingly high and I managed to sprain my shoulder when jumping back down. I blame my staff entirely, and I hope they feel just awful about this torture.

A house and a home

Eventually my staff conceded and got furniture, and there was a warm fire, and snow, and we had some good times together. Mom stayed around a lot more than she used to, so I got to spend a lot more time in her lap than usual.

My staff got very excited when it snowed and hurried outside. I don’t know why they enjoy misery, but the net result was an even greater fire than usual, so the cottage was nice and toasty.

Once my staff had recovered my favourite gray chair, I assumed we’d found our new home, and I was happy to settle in. However, my staff had yet more surprises in store for me. The final surprise has been, admittedly, the best of all: a house that my staff insists is my (our) permanent forever-home. It’s bigger than any other flat I’ve had, with a room for sleeping, a room for lounging, a room for food, some other rooms, and of course my room.

My room has a big window where I can lay down, watch birds, and generally guard the property. Annoyingly, my staff ventures outside frequently, often either right in my view or else out of my view – either way, it’s a big distraction, and I wish they’d just stay inside with me and concentrate on the status of my food plate (I prefer my meals to be served in a neat pile on my plate rather than scattered across it randomly).

My staff seems quite happy, however, and that makes me happy too. We’re cozy, we’re together, and we have a house and never ever have to get back into that box again.

My staff told me to include this: “Merry Christmas from New Zealand.”