The Many Faces of Santa
I think most cats suffer from a dual personality disorder. One moment they are full of purrs and nuzzles and headbutts and the next they are tearing around the house in fifth gear showing what a bad-ass they are. I prefer the cuddly side of them, it leads to fewer vet bills.
Sunday night was the perfect end to a perfect day off from the brewhouse. I had just finished decorating my home and Christmas tree and I was curled up with eggnog in hand in front of a production of “The Nutcracker” when I looked over to see my furry beast curled on the couch cushion next to me. He was winding down after a difficult day of sporadic napping and light snacking with a detailed bath. He was paying particular attention to an area on his hind leg and “Come to think of it,” I thought, “he’s been focusing his attention on that hind leg for a few days now. I wonder if anything is wrong.” I picked him up and brought him into the light to examine his hind leg. In an instance my Currier and Ives Christmas moment was transformed into a scene from the movie, ‘Alien’. “What the hell is that large pestiferous growth protruding from your body, and why do you keep putting your mouth on it?” My vet opened in three hours. I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep.
I handed his boil ridden butt over to the doctor before lunch shift and picked up a less disgusting version of him 10 hours later. He was partly shaved and had a row of stitches and a drain were the infected pus protrusion was. Yes, a definite improvement. I also handed the vet’s office a lump of the cash I had saved for my credit card payment, with no regrets; those purrs and nuzzles and headbutts mean everything to me.
Exactly 24 hours later, I was starting my dinner shift at the brewhouse and I informed my brewhouse co-workers of my unexpected financial burden. Five hours after that, a party of 18 was being seated in the back of the restaurant just as I was ‘cut’ from the floor. The co-worker assigned to the party was tired (father of a newborn) and traded with me. He went home and I went into full charming, jovial, service attentive mode. I was all too happy to make sure every drink was filled and every joke was on cue. I flirted with the old men and was especially gracious to the women. They were a lovely group; it wasn’t difficult to be nice to them.
The brewhouse adds an autogratuity to parties of 10 or more and the autogratuity for this party ensured I made my daily goal plus some extra. The extra was to go to the vet bill. I was happy I stayed. Then the party left an additional monetary thank you. I was in awe. That night I left the brewhouse with my goal plus the entire sum of my vet bill. It was as if I never drove to the doctor’s with an inflamed abscess attached to a small cat the previous day. The party of 18 or Santas in disguise made me financially whole in just one evening. I was so grateful. They were my own little Christmas miracle.
The only reminder of the festering carbuncle event I now have, is two weeks of syringe feeding my furry beast his medicine.
Twice a day.
Merry Christmas to me.