The Great Christmas Charity Purr-fect

It was Christmas Eve, and Tree—a cat who was roughly 10% fur and 90% audacity—was on a mission. While most cats were busy dreaming of catnip-stuffed mice, Tree was busy staring at the Christmas tree, wondering if he could legally sue it for copyright infringement on his name.

“Imposter,” Tree hissed at the Douglas Fir, before turning his attention to the real goal: The Great Christmas Charity Purr-ject.

The Mission

Tree had heard through the neighborhood “fence-meow” that a group of local strays was trapped in the community center parking lot because the automatic door was jammed. No heat, no treats, and most tragically, no fancy wet food.

Tree suited up. By “suited up,” he meant he rubbed himself against a discarded tinsel garland until he looked like a disco ball with ears.

The Great Rescue

He arrived at the community center to find five shivering cats.

“Fear not!” Tree declared, jumping onto a trash can. “I am here to save you. And also, does anyone have a snack? I haven’t eaten in twenty minutes. I’m basically skeletal.”

• The Joke: “Why don’t cats play poker in the wild?” Tree asked the shivering group.
• The Punchline: “Too many Cheetahs. Get it? Anyway, let’s get this door open.”

Tree didn’t have a key, but he had something better: The Zoomies. He sprinted at the motion sensor at approximately Mach 1. He was a blur of orange fur and festive tinsel. On the third pass, the sensor finally recognized his chaotic energy, and the door slid open.

“Go! Run to the heated lobby!” Tree commanded. “There’s a plate of ‘Santa’s Cookies’ in there. Pro tip: The oatmeal ones are a trap, go for the snickerdoodles.”

The Mistletoe Moment

Once the strays were safe and warm, Tree retreated to the porch of a nearby house to groom the tinsel out of his armpits. That’s when he saw her: Luna, a sleek silver tabby with eyes like emeralds and a personality that screamed, “I will bite you if you touch my belly.”

She was sitting directly under a sprig of mistletoe that had fallen from a doorway.

“Nice rescue, Tree,” Luna purred, looking unimpressed but secretly intrigued. “You almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

Tree puffed out his chest. “I’m a professional. I’m like James Bond, but I can lick my own back.”

“Is that so?” Luna tilted her head toward the mistletoe. “You know the rules, Mr. Bond.”

Tree looked up. He knew he had to be smooth. He leaned in, tripped slightly over a loose ornament, recovered with a somersault that he definitely meant to do, and landed right in front of her.

“I’m not saying I’m the best gift you’ll get today,” Tree whispered, “but I am the only one that comes with a 4 a.m. wake-up call.”

Luna laughed—a sound like a chirping bird—and leaned in. Tree gave her a soft, sandpaper-textured kiss right on the nose.

“Merry Christmas, Tree,” she whispered.

“Merry Christmas, Luna,” Tree replied. “Now, help me get this tinsel off. I’m starting to attract radio signals.”