Here’s a theory: there was no room at the inn because my cat is the size of a baby elephant
Like all lapsed Catholics, Jenn and I have a nativity set for the Christmas season. Ours is fairly large–Jenn’s grandfather found it at the supply yard, also known as the community dump–so we display it under the tree, next to all of the colorfully wrapped presents because both are equally important.
Jenn’s family has this unique holiday tradition of never placing Baby Jesus, Mary, or Joseph in the manger until Christmas morning, reasoning that none of them actually arrived at the stable until December 25. Instead, they hide Baby Jesus in a drawer and move the Mary and Joseph figurines around the room every few days to symbolize the couple’s journey to Bethlehem.
When Jenn and her siblings were little, their mother came up with a highly effective system for convincing them to help her around the house. For every chore they completed, she allowed them to place a single piece of straw into the manger. “If you don’t wash the dishes,” she’d warn, “Jesus won’t have a nice, warm bed. You don’t want Baby Jesus to be cold, do you?”
Jenn has continued this tradition–minus the guilt-trip–in our own house, but this year I regret to report that, despite a full bed of fluffy hay, Jesus may need to find himself some other quarters. Because ever since we set up the damn manger, my cat’s been sleeping in it.
That’s right, everyone. Edward thinks he’s Jesus.
This isn’t the first time that Edward has suffered from a major identity crisis. For several years now, he’s thought he was a dog. He greets us at the door with Bailey and Connor. He tries to follow us outside when we take them for walks, he meows whenever he sees a leash–he’s even taken to sleeping with them on their bed.
Still, there’s a huge difference between believing yourself to be a golden retriever and believing yourself to be the Messiah. Then again… God spelled backwards is dog.
Merry Christmas, everyone.