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And after he finished his shift tonight, he’d be off work until the following Monday, which meant he’d be able to stay the night after the Yule party, and we’d be able to have dinner together every evening from then through Christmas itself. I sort of wished I didn’t have to go into the shop all those days, but shutting down that close to the holiday would have been retail suicide. To compromise, I’d put a sign in the window signaling that the store would close at three o’clock on Christmas Eve, so at least I wouldn’t have to be at work until the bitter end.
In the meantime, though, I had to finish my own holiday shopping and get a few last odds and ends for my Yule dinner. Even though the mainstream holiday was still days away, the local Walmart was packed, and some of the shelves had started to look a little bare. Luckily, none of the items I needed were out of stock, and soon enough I was home and putting everything away.
It was also sheer luck that Archie was nowhere around when I arrived. I’d thought I should get him some sort of Yule present, although I’d been hard-pressed to think what would be suitable. He absolutely refused to wear a collar, and he showed zero interest in any kind of cat toys — I’d found that out the hard way when I’d innocently brought home a squeaker toy, and he’d looked at me as though I’d just put aPlayboymagazine in front of him.
“Why in the world would you think I’d want one of those?” he’d asked, his tone dripping scorn.
“Well, most cats — ” I’d begun, but he hadn’t allowed me to get any further than that.
“I,” he’d said in the most imperious voice possible, “am not ‘most cats.’”
And he’d stalked indignantly from the room.
Which left me just a wee bit at a loss. However, when I was at Walmart, I saw some small planters of catnip in the floral section, and thought it might be fun to buy one for Archie. Maybe it wouldn’t have any effect on him at all — or maybe it would give him a nice high to ride on so he wouldn’t be so cranky about Calvin staying the night.
Wishful thinking, most likely, but the catnip had gone into my cart anyway. I figured I’d give it to Archie right before my guests arrived so he’d have something to occupy him and — I hoped — take his mind off the invasion of his home by Hazel and Chuck and Calvin.
That Tuesday evening after I got the roast in the oven, I set the little container of catnip on the red velvet skirt below the Christmas tree and went into the dining room to start setting the table. A few minutes later, Archie walked into the living room, went over to the tree, and sniffed at the container of catnip.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your Yule present,” I replied, hoping I hadn’t made a horrible miscalculation. “I didn’t know what to get you, but I thought the catnip might be fun.”
He stared at me for a second or two, then said politely, “Thank you.”
Well, so much for that. I supposed I should have been glad that he hadn’t made some sort of derogatory comment about his gift and at least was trying to be polite.
But then….
Archie turned back toward the catnip, sniffed at it again, then bent his head and rubbed against the sharp little green leaves. An expression of what could only be called ecstasy passed across his feline features, and then he rubbed, and rubbed, and rubbed some more. Afterward, he fell on the living room rug and rolled around, feet in the air, contorting himself in ways I knew a fully sober cursed cat would never have done.
Oops. Now I felt like a drug dealer.
After rolling around some more, he flopped over on his side and appeared to pass out. In fact, he was so still that I paused in my table prep and went over where he lay so I could lean close and make sure he was still breathing.
Okay, definitely breathing. His eyes were shut, though, and it didn’t look as though he intended to come back to reality any time soon.
Maybe that was a good thing. With any luck, he’d sleep right through dinner and any “activities” that might follow.
I went back to the dining room and finished setting the table, then headed into the kitchen and began working on the Yorkshire pudding and the vegetables. Because I knew I could never compete with the pastries from Cloud Coffee, I’d gone ahead and bought one of their seasonal cranberry/apple pies for dessert, so that part of the meal was handled.
A quick trip into the bedroom to change into a green wrap sweater and swirly black velvet skirt, and I figured I was ready for my guests. Not a moment too soon, either, since someone knocked at the door right after I finished tying off the sweater.
The knock was Calvin, of course. I opened the door and let him in, and he bent to kiss me on the cheek before handing me a bottle of wine. Surprisingly, it wasn’t something local, but a Bordeaux from some fancy-sounding French vineyard whose name I doubted I could pronounce.
“You said roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, so I thought I’d go for something a little more traditional,” he explained as I scrutinized the label.
“It looks great,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead and open it up and get it airing?”
“Will do.”
He went into the dining room with the bottle and then paused, his gaze tracking toward the living room. “Is your cat okay?”
I sincerely hoped so. “Oh, sure,” I said airily. After all, I’d determined Archie was breathing. He’d just managed to get himself thoroughly zonked, but otherwise, he seemed fine. “He’s just in a catnip coma right now.”
Calvin still looked somewhat dubious, but then he gave a lift of his shoulders and returned his attention to the wine bottle. Just as he was setting it down on the table, another knock came at the door.
“Can you get that?” I asked. “I need to get started on the gravy.”
