Christmas at Grandma's
The old tortoiseshell cat stretched on the windowsill, her claws clicking against the glass as she arched her back. A thin layer of frost feathered the edges of the pane, but the radiator beneath her kept the spot warm—her throne. From here, she could watch the world outside without having to endure it. Snowflakes drifted past, lazy and thick, settling on the overgrown hedge where sparrows usually squabbled. Today, though, the yard was quiet.
Down the hall, Grandma hummed something off-key, the sound muffled by the clatter of pots. The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar curled under the kitchen door, mingling with the damp wool of drying mittens draped over the radiator. The cat sniffed, twitching one ear. She knew better than to investigate. Last time, she’d ended up with a dusting of flour on her nose and a scolding for pawing at the pie crust.
A sudden thump from the living room made her tail flick. The tree had been up for three days now, and she still hadn’t decided if it was friend or foe. The glittering baubles swayed temptingly, but the prickly needles were a deterrent. Besides, Grandma had strung popcorn along the lower branches—a snack waiting to be stolen, if she timed it right. She licked her lips, contemplating.
Then the doorbell rang. The cat’s head snapped up, her pupils widening. Visitors meant noise, shuffling boots, and—worst of all—strange hands reaching for her. She bolted, a streak of fur vanishing under the couch just as the front door creaked open. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying voices and laughter. The cat tucked her paws neatly beneath her, watching as a pair of small, snow-caked boots stomped into view.
"Grandma, we brought the kittens!" came a high-pitched squeal. The tortoiseshell’s ears flattened. Kittens. She remembered them from last summer—tiny whirlwinds of chaos, all pouncing limbs and needle-sharp teeth. The boots scuffed closer, and then suddenly, the living room rug erupted in movement. Two ginger blurs tumbled out of a carrier, tussling immediately, batting at the tassels on Grandma’s slippers. The cat exhaled through her nose.
From her hiding spot, she observed their antics. One kitten—round-bellied and bold—leaped onto the tree skirt, sending ornaments jingling. The other, smaller and sly, crouched low, tail wiggling before launching onto his brother’s back. They rolled into the tree stand, shaking the branches. A glass reindeer shattered on the hardwood. The tortoiseshell’s tail twitched.
Grandma sighed but didn’t scold. Instead, she reached into her apron pocket and scattered something across the floor—dried fish flakes. The kittens abandoned their battle, noses quivering. The old cat hesitated, then crept forward, her belly low to the ground. The scent was irresistible. As she inched closer, the smaller kitten froze, staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes. Then, with a tiny chirp, it bounded over and booped her nose with its own. The tortoiseshell recoiled, but the kitten just purred, flopping onto its back in offering.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The radiator hissed. And under the Christmas tree, three cats sat in tentative truce, while Grandma smiled, stirring something sweet on the stove.
Merry Christmas to all!
#HappyHoildays
#MerryChristmas
#ChristmasStory
#Cats
#Kittens