December 16 ~ Purrmany

in

"Cat Litter"

Hallo. I am Germany Cat. I am a blue-coated domestic shorthair with twelve white whiskers on each cheek. My tail is a standard thirty centimeters, though I will not impose this length as a general stipulation in matters of fashion. I am a large but healthy 4.5 kilograms, consuming the recommended 280 calories of wet cat food per day, with the exception of a single chicken-flavored treat every time I meow to come in from outside. I am not a greedy cat. I understand that only one treat is sufficient. I nap in a sherpa-lined cat bed on top of the cabinet behind the dining room table. The right wall of this cabinet is reserved for sharpening my claws.

I supervise the bed-making process in the mornings. Every sheet must go in its exact position, from fold to finish. If I perceive a single wrinkle, I leap up onto the bed and point my human to the deficiency. A communication error causes him to believe I am attacking the sheets, when I am merely expressing dissatisfaction. The same goes for pillows which are not symmetrical and a comforter hanging too far over one side. This must be corrected internally. I force my way underneath and arch my back so my human knows where to address the issue.

Today, the sixteenth of December, I have completed the daily protocols. I make a mental note that it is snowing heavily outside, but that the snow has a flaky sheen to it. The Romantics would call it fairy dust. As a non-Romantic cat, I call it a fair layer to bury those potato-shaped marzipan treats under. I will not tolerate treats that resemble dung. I will certainly not tolerate my brother pawing dung-treats all over the dining room floor.

My brother accosts me as I drag the cellophane-wrapped plastic container filled with potatoes over to the sliding glass door. He calls me no fun. I call him a nuisance. He swipes a paw at my face. I bat him back in double-time, then hiss and growl as I finish dragging the container.

"You're still mad about the tinsel collar," my brother purrs.

"That was your fault. You pretended to like yours enough so I would get one too," I huff.

My human comes into the room. He is taking his afternoon twenty-minute break from the excitement of bureaucracy. Stretching his arms behind his head, he gives a great sigh and begins to eye the counter for cookies. Instantly, he knows the marzipan potatoes are missing, and his powers of deduction lead him right to my scheme.

I wish I had thumbs to open the door.

"What are you doing with the marzipan, cat? Not enough to do?" His blue eyes are stern and narrowed above the sharp nose and wide, angled jaw.

He reaches down to pick me up, but I hate being smothered. As soon as I get a good grip into his shirt, I wriggle and squirm until I can pull myself up onto his shoulders. He has to bend down to accommodate me sitting on his upper back. I refuse to move. From up here, I can survey the entryway, the little kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and the office. The door to the basement is open three centimeters, which means Prussia Cat's human has opened it in order to pretend he is awake and alert during his mid-afternoon nap.

"I can't look at my computer screen anymore today," my human says. "I'm going to find some Gluhwein and a big sausage and have the winter air remind me I'm alive after sitting in that chair all week."

"That sounds appropriate, though is this a spontaneous thought? You really should prioritize. Spontaneity is a dangerous habit," I meow.

I go unanswered. My human straightens his back so I tumble down onto the couch. Then, without even alerting his brother sleeping downstairs, he goes to the entryway to put on his coat and check his hair in the mirror. When all parts of his fringe are straightened, he slips on his mittens and boots. Key fob goes in the left pocket and phone in the right, alongside the wallet.

"This is too spontaneous! Go back to your work!" I yowl after him, tearing over so I can grab his pant leg in my teeth.

"Do you want to come with? You're restless," he tells me.

I protest, but he's already got me tight against his chest, and no amount of squirming will save me from riding along in the BMW for some "Gluhwein and chill."

Christmas markets are a tradition stretching back to when merchants needed extra money during the holidays. Presently, they are celebrations of combining enough German foods to make gastronomy into a surrealist piece. I am aware America is known for state fairs — fried peanut butter cups and all — but at a Christmas market it is easy to find potato chips on a stick and sausages sandwiched between tiny bread rolls and enough Lebkuchen to turn a baker gray — quite appropriate actually, as bakeries are the lifeblood of Germans, right above foundries and cubicles, and an old baker never has to worry that his son will not take up the mantle when it comes his time.

The gray of the sky deepens. Snow is falling in clumps now. I back up in the passenger's seat, but we've parked, and the lights of the market are turning on in the streets. My human looks more relaxed now. He looks more relaxed than he should in the middle of the week. Before unbuckling his seatbelt, he slumps and stretches his lips into a thin smile. Perhaps he is simply happy to be alone, without his brother hovering over him, I reason. Otherwise it is difficult to determine if he is the caretaker or the baby of the house.

He then steps out and walks around to my side. Again, I'm squished against his chest. His puffy coat is chilly against my fur. I grip my claws into the front and try to pull myself up to his shoulders, but he squeezes me tight.

"Behave. I'll find you a sausage," he says.

We walk through the straight, crisscrossing streets to reach the city center, where the lights flare off the snowbanks and flash in my eyes. Bright snowflakes and baubles and lighted pine boughs are strung under every gable of the miniature cabins in this miniature village. Little Christmas trees dot the street corners, and the smells of cinnamon and grease only intensify as we press into the crowd.

"Stop smothering me! I need to be able to assess the situation!" I meow. My lips wrinkle and my ears are flat against my skull. With renewed vigor, I dig my claws into my human's coat and wrench myself up onto his shoulders. He's forced to bend forward so I can get a decent perch. Now I can survey all the passersby and determine the source of all these lights and smells. A few curious children giggle at the sight, but I am not a cat for nonsense today. The only one who I allow to pet me is my human, who swipes his hands up to poke my flanks and find my position.

With this odd coupling, my human scoots forward. I act as his eyes, patting the back of his neck when I see something he would like.

"There's your Gluhwein," I meow. "But you must be responsible. I have no thumbs to drive you home."

Despite my warning, he scoots up to purchase a mug of the mulled red wine and sips it carefully from his hunched over position. I stretch my neck up and peer around for the next item. If we are to prioritize our time here, we need to find sausage in a timely manner.

"What a well-behaved cat you have," an old lady tells my human as she walks by.

"To him, this is being held," my human tells her.

He continues sipping away as he watches the flashing lights. As the sky gets darker, their bright glow further confuses me. I can see well in the dark, but with red and green and blue and white calling my attention, the categorization modules of my brain are strained to create a map of the surroundings.

I locate the nearest hotspot for sausage, but my human is more interested in potato pancakes with applesauce and the waffles and the sugary Schaumkuss dunked in chocolate. It is now reasonable to conclude the more sugar he eats, the more childlike he becomes.

He finishes licking pudding off his fingers from the soaked dumpling he bought from the Bavarian stand. I stretch my neck down to lap at some, and he lets me have a good helping. The stuff sticks to my whiskers.

The sky is dark, the snow falls in handfuls, and the lights are sparkling while visitors pile in to eat their weight in desserts. My fur fluffs up until I'm a frosty snowball from all the snow collecting in it. The cold air and the Gluhwein turn my human's ears peppermint pink. I give them a few licks, but they're so cold, he can't even feel it.

My legs are getting tired, so I fold myself down into a cat loaf on his upper back and tuck my paws up under me. At last, my human finds the best little hut for sausage. (His nose can tell.) The merchant's daughter scratches me between the ears while he sticks two bratwursts between two round buns. One more time, my human fiddles with his mittens and hands over the last of his euro bills. The sausages are still bubbling and fizzing with grease. My human stuffs his mittens in his pockets, one on the left and one on the right, then takes the sausages in each hand. Never groaning about the strain in his back, he scoots with me all the way back to the BMW. The passenger's seat is coated with rags and then paper towels. (I'm surprised we're taking even this risk of getting the car dirty, but my human's had Gluhwein.)

Then he places one bratwurst over the towels while feasting on his own. I lap at the grease, then chomp on the end, savoring the flavor of the well-cooked meat. The lights of the market flash and glow faintly through the snow-coated windshield. In a few minutes, my human will get out to wipe it off, but for now…

For now it is good to be spontaneous.

~N~

Prussia Cat and his human alike were not too happy that they weren't invited. Ah, but after seeing some of the favorite foods at Christmas markets, I want to try all of them. Hang in there, German readers! If you can't go this year, I send best wishes that next year the lights and cookies will be twice as great!

A "litter" is a seat for riding around on, haha. My cat actually does this. She hates being held, so she crawls up and sits on my back to ride around.

Updated by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net December 19th, 2020.