(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Caturday Pootie Diary: 'tis the season [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2023-11-25 Freddie and I were stretched out on the couch in front of the Christmas tree, now set up and decorated, the lights cheerfully blinking. “It’s so pretty,” I observed. “It needs more catnip,” Freddie said. I snorted. “You don’t put catnip on a Christmas tree.” Freddie yawned. “You should,” he said, his jaw snapping shut. “It smells so good.” A gentle reminder of how we do things: 🐱🐶🐦 Do not troll the diary. If you hate pootie diaries, leave now. No harm, no foul. Please do share pics of your fur kids! If you have health/behavior issues with your pets, feel free to bring it to the community. Pooties are cats; Woozles are dogs. Birds... are birds! Peeps are people. Whatever happens in the outer blog STAYS in the outer blog. If you’re having “issues” with another Kossack, keep it “out there.” This is a place to relax and play; please treat it accordingly. There are some pics we never post: snakes, creepy crawlies, any and all photos that depict or encourage human cruelty toward animals. These are considered “out of bounds” and will not be tolerated. If we alert you to it, please remember that we do have phobic peeps who react strongly to them. If you keep posting banned pics...well then...the Tigress will have to take matters in hand. Or, paw. “To be honest, we don’t want you near the tree,” I confessed. “So catnip would be a bad idea.” His head shot up and he stared at me. “You can’t tell me what to do!” I sighed. “Just don’t cause any damage and for the love of god, don’t pee on the tree skirt.” A thoughtful look crossed his face as he turned his head toward the tree. “Please don’t. You have several clean litter boxes.” “It’s on the floor, though. Under a tree.” “It’s not even a real tree.” “It looks like a tree, but it doesn’t smell like a tree,” he said. “What does it smell like?” He lifted his chin and flared his nostrils, taking in the scent. “Like plastic, and electricity, and rodents.” “I’m sorry, what was that last one?” He looked over at me. “Rodents. The small ones. I think they walked across the branches at some point in the last few months.” I looked over at the tree, blinking innocently in the window and shivered. “They get into the garage sometimes,” I admitted. “But I didn’t see any droppings or anything.” “They may have just walked over it. I have a very sensitive nose.” “Maybe keep the rodent scent to yourself,” I suggested. “Unless they’re, like, inside the house.” I looked around. “They aren’t inside the house, right?” “No,” he said. “There are two spiders in the kitchen and one in your bedroom, plus about four crickets in the bathroom. No rodents.” “Can you catch the spider in my bedroom? Get rid of it?” He yawned again, then rested his head on my arm. “If I see it while I’m hunting, I will.” I sighed, reaching over to pet him with my free hand. “I guess that will have to be enough,” I said, thanking the moon and stars for the mosquito net over my bed. His head began to feel heavier on my forearm as he drifted deeper into sleep. His weight was comforting and cozy even as my hand started to tingle. “Freddie is a good booooooy,” I sang, softly. “Freddie is my sweet booooooy.” His ear twitched, but he did not wake up. I shuffled down on the couch, careful not to jostle Freddie, and put my feet up on the table. I was almost totally reclined and very sleepy. There was a faint whiff of cinnamon in the air, and the room shone with baubles and lights made prettier by my astigmatism. “Freddie is a good Christmas booooooy,” I whisper-sang, my eyes drifting closed. Freddie startled awake, bringing me out of my doze with him. “What…?” I said, confused. “Where’s Santa?” Freddie demanded. “What?” I said, still confused. “He comes when the tree is up. Did I miss him?” “...no…?” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Did you have a dream?” He looked around, the fur on his back settling as he calmed down. “I guess so,” he said. “You dreamt about Santa? How do you know about Santa?” “He didn’t come. It was someone else. He was tall, with horns, and he had a big bag on his back full of sticks!” I frowned. “How do you know about Krampus?” “What’s a Krampus?” “I don’t really know that much about him,” I admitted. “I think he comes on Christmas Eve to punish the children who’ve been naughty all year in, like, Germany. I think.” The hair on Freddie’s back started to rise again. “He’s real?” I shrugged. “As real as Santa,” I said. Freddie gave a panicked hiss. "I’ve never heard of him coming for cats,” I assured him, stroking his fur. “Besides, no one can fault a cat for being naughty. It’s just who you are.” “That’s what Santa says,” Freddie muttered, calming down again. “Do you dream about Santa a lot?” I wondered. He looked at me, then quickly away. “Yeah,” he said, then set about grooming himself. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something from me?” “I don’t know,” he said between long licks of the fur on his back. He paused his self-care. “You should get me some treats. Krampus won’t like it if you aren’t nice to me.” I snorted. “I’ll get you some treats because I want to, not because I’m scared of Krampus,” I said, getting up. It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d been played. Happy Caturday, Peeps! The tree is up, the lights are on, and we at Casa Freddie are ready for the holidays. How about you? Are you getting ready? 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