'Til Dawn Comes

Our youngest daughter has an old cat named Raptor. She's had her since she was a kitten. The first time we saw Raptor at the pet store, I picked her up and she growled at me, thus earning her name. In the twelve years Grace has had her, Raptor has kept up her reputation for being cranky. But with each passing year, the old girl has grown slower, pudgier, less sure on her feet.

Sorta like me.

But there's something about the annual Christmas tree that inspires our old kitty. I don't know if it's the scent, the organic connection to the outdoors she no longer roams. Maybe it makes her feel secure. Maybe she just likes being the center of attention along with the tree. Whatever it is, every year she claims it as hers as soon as the last ornament is hung. Or sometimes before.

A lot like me.

Yesterday we cut our tree from our fledgling forest. As soon as we got the Christmas tree skirt around the base of the tree - even before the tree was fully decorated, Raptor was hanging around us in anticipation. As soon as we had it lit, Raptor took up residence. Transformed into the picture of youth again, she batted around the one and only present under the tree. Then she circled around and plopped down on top of it to take her long afternoon nap. She tucked herself as close as she could get to the beauty and comfort of the season and reveled in the rest it offered.

Just like me.