Party At The Townhouse

Hi everyone, Katie here.

The holidays can be hard. For many, Christmastime is filled with ups and downs. Just when I think it can't get any better... the excitement of a fresh tree, the twinkle of sparkly lights, tempting dangly ornaments, and PRESENTS with my name on them... I hear the word I wish Glogirly would just banish from her vocabulary.

Party.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parties as long as the venue is somewhere OTHER than the townhouse.

There are warning signs, that's for sure. It generally starts with a thorough townhouse cleaning. I'm fine with that. I'm a very neat cat. I like order. I like clean. Everything in it's place means less time wasted on my daily rounds and more time devoted to napping.

When the vacuum comes out though, I know she means business.

It's no accident that Glogirly's vacuum is a Dyson Animal.

And when the microfiber cloths come out, well... it's beyond serious. All stainless appliances, including the ham safe, ham cookers, and the ham plate washer, are going to get a once over with that nasty, smelly cleaner that sounds like a snake when Glogirly squirts it.

Dust will be considered the enemy and Mrs. Meyers our friend, as every mirror, every window, EVERY surface imaginable is wiped to a sparkling shine.

Mrs. Meyers and I, we have the same eyes.

Still there is time.

One, maybe two days.

Time enough to take the Christmas decorations over the top. Much like cleaning, I believe the more decorations the merrier. But even so, underneath all that glitter lies a warning. Party guests.

So when the dining room table is set with all the tall sparkly breakable stuff and yummier than normal smells start wafting their way from the kitchen, I know that invasion is imminent.

Now only a few hours stand between me and the smelly doorbell-ringing strangers... er, I mean party guests.

Music and candlelight. Romantic? I think not. More like T minus 30. These two final warning shots occur approximately one half hour before the doorbell alarm sounds, announcing the arrival of the first intruder.

It's important I make sure I'm well hydrated and fed. Litterbox needs should have already been attended to. Favorite toys stashed. It may be a while before I can refuel or safely use my box again. Of course it's not impossible, but I run the risk of a close encounter with one, two or even a gang of these strangers.

When the doorbell rings, I'm off. I dash upstairs and under the bed. Meanwhile, Glogirly & Gloman make lots of noise entertaining these so-called strangers. There's lots of loud shoes, annoying laughter, even an occasional shriek. I think they're drinking. They better stay away from my dish.

Finally, after what seems like days, I hear the front door shut for the last time. It's about time. I come trotting down the steps with my nonchalant "What? Did you have a party or something? I hadn't noticed" look on my face.

I instinctively know that my townhouse is once again mine.

All mine.