Tree Tuesday Story: The Case of the Cranberry Treat

Tree, a magnificent Russian Blue with eyes the color of emeralds, found himself in a state of profound contemplation. His sleek, silver-blue fur shimmered as he meticulously groomed a paw, each lick a testament to his dedication to feline hygiene. Tree wasn’t just any cat; he was a connoisseur of comfort, a scholar of sunbeams, and, most importantly, a cat who took his health very, very seriously. Or, at least, he was about to.

The morning sun, a mere suggestion of warmth filtering through the blinds, found Tree pondering the existential dread of a rogue dust bunny. His human, a tall, perpetually busy creature named Shimmers, bustled into the kitchen, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a squirrel trying to escape a tuba. Tree, ever the discerning observer, merely flicked an ear. He knew this tune. It usually preceded something interesting. Perhaps a fresh bowl of his favorite salmon pate? A new cardboard box to conquer?

Shimmers, however, produced a small, brightly colored bag. “Tree, my handsome boy!” she cooed, a little too enthusiastically for 7 AM. “Look what I got you! Cranberry treats! For good health, you know. Keeps those pesky little… things… away.” She winked, as if sharing a secret only cats and humans truly understood.

Tree, whose understanding of “pesky little things” extended mostly to dust bunnies and the occasional rogue sock, tilted his head. Treats? Cranberry? He sniffed suspiciously as Shimmers offered one. It was a small, reddish-brown nugget, firm to the touch. He took it delicately, a true gentleman.

One tentative crunch. Two. His green eyes widened. It wasn’t salmon, no, but it was… surprisingly palatable. A faint, tart sweetness, followed by a satisfying chewiness. He crunched another. And another. Before he knew it, half the bag was gone, and Tree felt a peculiar lightness in his paws, a spring in his step. “Good health,” Shimmers had said. Could it be? Was this the secret to eternal youth and boundless energy? He felt like he could chase the laser pointer for a solid hour without needing a nap! (A truly revolutionary concept for Tree).

A mischievous glint appeared in his emerald eyes. If these “Treets” (as he decided to call them, a portmanteau of his name and “treats”) were so good for his health, surely they’d be good for his friends! Tree was, at heart, a benevolent dictator. He believed in sharing, especially when the sharing made him feel superior.

His first target was Looney, a fluffy white Persian with eyes like twin sapphires and a perpetually bewildered expression. Looney was, to put it mildly, not the sharpest claw in the shed. He often tried to catch his own tail, only to be surprised when it moved.

Tree found Looney attempting to communicate with a particularly stubborn dust bunny under the sofa. “Looney,” Tree announced, dropping a Treet at his friend’s paws. “A gift. For good health.”

Looney blinked slowly. “Is it… a fluffy mouse?” he mumbled, batting at the Treet with a paw. “It smells like… a berry that got lost.”

“It’s a Treet!” Tree declared, puffing out his chest. “Shimmers says it’s for good health. You’ll feel like chasing your tail for hours without getting dizzy!”

Looney’s eyes widened at the prospect. “Hours? Without dizzy? Oh, Tree, you are a genius!” He promptly swallowed the Treet whole, then looked around expectantly. “Do I feel healthier yet? My tail still seems to be… attached.”

Tree sighed. “It’s not instant, Looney. It’s a gradual process. Like watching grass grow, but for your insides.” He left Looney pondering the existential dilemma of his tail, and set off to find Wrecker.

Wrecker was a tabby of indeterminate lineage, with fur the color of a well-worn rug and a personality to match. He was the kind of cat who believed in efficiency: eat, sleep, occasionally swat at things, repeat. He was currently engaged in his favorite pastime: napping in a sunbeam, a small snore escaping his nose.

Tree nudged him with a paw. “Wrecker. Wake up. I bring tidings of great health!”

Wrecker merely groaned, a sound suspiciously like a rusty gate. “Five more minutes, Tree. I was just dreaming of a giant tuna fish sandwich.”

“No time for tuna dreams!” Tree insisted, dropping a handful of Treets onto Wrecker’s stomach. “These are Treets! For good health! Shimmers says so!”

Wrecker opened one bleary eye. He sniffed the treats. “Are they… edible?”

“Of course they’re edible! They’re for good health!” Tree emphasized. “You’ll feel so spry, you’ll want to chase that red dot even when it’s not moving!”

Wrecker slowly sat up, a look of skepticism on his face. “Chasing a stationary red dot? That sounds like a lot of effort for zero reward. Are you sure these aren’t just tiny, crunchy pebbles?” He crunched one, then another, his expression slowly shifting from suspicion to mild surprise. “Hmm. Not bad. Do they also make me immune to bath time?”

“Perhaps!” Tree declared, though he had no evidence to support this. “The power of good health is boundless!”

Over the next few days, Tree became the self-appointed purveyor of good health. He’d sneak Treets to Looney, who was now convinced his tail was indeed less dizzying, and to Wrecker, who, while still a champion napper, occasionally indulged in a brief, energetic stretch. Tree even tried to give one to the grumpy old squirrel who frequented their bird feeder, but the squirrel merely chattered indignantly and threw an acorn at him. “Some creatures,” Tree mused, “are beyond the reach of good health.”

One afternoon, Shimmers found the empty Treet bag. “Tree,” she said, holding it up. “Did you eat all the cranberry treats?”

Tree, feeling particularly spry after a vigorous session of batting at a dangling shoelace, purred loudly. “Indeed, human! And I shared them for good health!”

Shimmers chuckled. “Well, that’s sweet of you, but they’re just for urinary tract health, buddy. Not exactly a cure-all for everything.”

Tree froze. Urinary tract health? Not boundless energy? Not immunity to bath time? His emerald eyes narrowed. He had been… misled! The indignity! He had been spreading specialized feline bladder wellness nuggets as if they were elixirs of eternal youth!

He looked at Looney, who was now attempting to teach his tail to fetch. He looked at Wrecker, who was still napping, but with a slightly more contented sigh.

A slow, rumbling purr began in Tree’s chest. Even if they weren’t magical elixirs, he had shared something good. Looney was less bewildered, if only for a moment, and Wrecker had actually stretched. And Tree himself felt pretty good. Maybe the “good health” wasn’t just about cranberries. Maybe it was about the simple act of sharing, of caring for his friends, even if his understanding of the benefits was slightly… skewed.

The moral of the story, as Tree would later ponder while napping in a sunbeam (a truly healthy endeavor, he decided), is that sometimes, the greatest good comes from intentions, even if the facts are a little fuzzy. And a shared treat, no matter its specific health benefit, is always a good thing. Especially if it means less dizzy tails for your friends.