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Furman's Manly Journal

R.I.P. The Christmas Tree

December 9th 2007 6:39 pm
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Dear Santa Paws,
Hey Dude, How was your year? Mine was furtastical. I am not going to bother sending you a Christmas List this year. I know you know what I did. What *we* did, me and my Catster fishing buddies, in Vegas. Purrlease don't blame the guys, it was all my idea. The trip, the rental car, the gambling. The Elvis Impurrrsonator, the trench coat, and the Neil Diamond concert. I was responsible for it all. Especially don't blame Leo. He is young, and I should have taught him better. And Baja is one of the best dudes I have ever met. He was just trying to have a little fun. We payed back our Mama's for the Mastercat Cards and the rental car had only a little bit of damage.

Because of these things I am not expecting you to leave anything for me under the tree. Actually, Big Jolly Dude, it wouldn't matter if you did have a purresent for me. There is no tree to put it under. We had a Christmas tree for one day only. It is gone now, and not for cat-related reasons. The hoomins put it up yesterday. I was napping all day, and when I woke up the downstairs was a magical wonderland of sparking christmas delight (I mean that in a manly way, of course). It smelled like pine cones and snow and cinnamon candles. I walked around and looked at efurrything all night. We took pictures and ate ice cream and stared at our twinkling Christmas beacon and thought about all the goodies you, Santa, would leave under those artificial branches. Then we noticed it was leaning, only a little. Oh well, we thought, nocat is purrrfect. We still loved the tree.

This morning we ran down the stairs and turned on the lights and further enjoyed our little slice of pine heaven. We got used to the leaning. It was endearing. Our crooked little tree. We stared at him and he sparkled back at us. My sisfurs and I nibbled on the wire branches, and batted at ornaments. Mommy adjusted the snowflake star and fiddled with homemade ornaments of Christmases past. We ate supper in the living room ands soaked in the Christmassy goodness. Then it fell over. Right on it's side. Right in mid-forkful of Root Vegatable Medley, my Mommy jumped up and rushed to his twinkly side. "The tree is deeeeeeeaaaaaaad!", she yowled. We collected the ornaments and lifted him up. His leg was broken, cracked down the middle. Down came the lights, away went our holly jolly tree dude. He is now on his way to the dumpster. Santa, we had that little dude since 2001, he got here right after I did.

As you can see, Santa Paws, even if you *were* going to leave me a purrresent after my wild Vegas vacation and my drunken-with-nip fishing trips, you would have nowhere to leave it. That is why I am writing you this letter. To let you off the hook this year. For the record, my sisfurs were no angels this year either, but that is their letter to write. So Merry Christmas Santa Paws, maybe I'll see you next year.

Happy Pawlidays, Furman Dexter Baggins


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