I woke up and realized it was Christmas morning.  I went out into the living room.  The tree was there, leaning in it’s stand.  I looked for the cat.  I heard him, but I couldn’t get a bead on his calls.  “Cat!”  Billy the Kid was his name, but that was a mouthful early in the morning, so I just continued to call out “Cat! Cat. Cat?”  I figured he’d hear me one way or the other.

I found the cat, he was up the Christmas tree eating one of the bulbs.  “Get the hell out of the tree.  You’re ruining Christmas.”  He didn’t seem to care about Christmas or what I had to say.  I went over and shook the three.  I shook it some more and he fell through the branches.  His hind-legs went into the water in the tree stand.  It was like hot lightning after that, he ran across the room with both hind-legs in the air.

Serves him right for ruining Christmas.  There were two or three presents under the tree.  One was sent by my Mother.  The others, given sympathetically by my landlord, or and old girlfriend, or the mailman.  I looked at them sideways awhile and went out to find the cat.  He was bathing himself, with a disgusted look on his face.  He saw me and kept the disgusting look on his face.  I shot him a dirty look in return.  Then I rubbed him on the side of his cheek and we were on good terms again.

That’s what I like about cats.  They’re hot and cold, and not much of anything in between.  Even if they do ruin Christmas, it’s hard to hold it against them.  I fed Billy the Kid and walked around the house in my sweatpants.  My feet were cold so I had to keep moving.  I went into the bathroom and washed myself in the sink with scalding water.  I cleaned my teeth and then cleaned them again because the first run didn't get the morning out of my mouth.  I went back out and started pacing again.

I don’t know why I was pacing.  It was like I was waiting for something, for someone, but they weren’t coming.  No one was coming.  Christmas had arrived, as if suddenly, out of July, and I was in my apartment with a crooked tree and cat-chewed Christmas lights.  There was one deflated stocking in the corner of the room.  I’d hung it up with a thumb-tack the night before, but I assume Billy the Kid didn’t approve of it.  I picked it up and admired it.  There were chew marks on the toe and the material was frayed.  

I brought it into the other room and threw it at the cat.  He dodged it easily and went back to brushing his hair with his paw.  A dog would have become distraught, peed on the floor, made awful noises, but the cat just ignored my aggression.  We got along that way.

There were eggs in the refrigerator.  I took two out and left them on the sink.  I broke one open and it had a bloody yellow eyeball inside.  I didn’t have an appetite for eggs after that.  I threw them into the sink and washed them away.  I made oatmeal and put a banana in it.  With the unlit Christmas tree, and the cat playing with his hair-do, that oatmeal tasted sad.  When I got to the bottom of the bowl, it was only lukewarm and that made it, for some reason, more sad.

The cat came over and rubbed himself along my leg.  He must have sensed the sadness too.  He made a figure-eight to even out his hairs.  Then he went and laid on his back under the tree.  He was at one of the hanging light bulbs again, but I decided there wasn’t much point in stopping him now.  He’d already ruined Christmas.

The presents were there, stacked like blocks.  The bottom one was ripped open on one corner.  I could see something green inside.  I could have opened them then.  It seemed like the right time, but instead I let them sit a little longer.  Once they were gone, I wasn’t sure if it would feel like Christmas anymore.

On the kitchen counter I’d accumulated a considerable stack of letters.  At least some of them had to be Christmas cards.  The rest were telephone bills, bank statements, advertisements for men’s sweatshirts and women’s brassieres.  I separated the mail, looking at the brassiere before throwing them into the garbage.  I didn’t look at the sweatshirts.  I knew they’d be ugly and expensive.

The first Christmas card was from a dentist short name like Lu or Fu.  I hadn’t been to the dentist in ten years.  The address was hand-written on the envelope, but the card was stamped with that same short name.  I tore it in half and set it in its own pile.  The next was a card from a family.  They were my friends also, but mostly they were family.  I didn’t get along well with the kid.  He had a big, soft head and was always crying about something.  I read the note.  It said “Merry Christmas, from the P______.”  I stood it up on its end and went at the next envelope.

The third card was from a woman I used to date.  It was a handmade card, real pretty with things glued this way and that way.  I shook it and some of the shiny dust fell off.  Then I opened it up.  There was a long note inside.  I don’t remember what it said, but it made me feel good at the time.  It almost made me fell like Christmas wasn’t ruined after all.  I stood it next to the other.

The telephone bills and bank statements looked neglected so I opened them next.  Those didn’t make me feel good.  I shook them too, but there was no shiny dust or cotton-ball snowmen glued on.  I cut them in half with my hands and put them in the pile with first card from the dentist.  

There was one more letter.  It was in a red envelope and whoever sent it had stylish handwriting.  They must have taken a long time to get the letters symmetrical and centered just right.  I went to tear it open and then I stopped.  I thought to myself that it was almost too nice to rip open.  Then I thought that it was too nice to rip open.  I carried it back to the living room and set in on top of the wrapped presents.  The cat was watching me with one eye.  I reached down to pet him, but he got up and walked away.

I didn’t open the gifts until the next morning.  There was no point.  The cat had already ruined Christmas.