Christmas traditions

Every family has its Christmas traditions. Some people go carolling, some bake gingerbread and some watch Love Actually on repeat until they start quoting it in their sleep. And then there is our beloved, slightly unhinged Crear tradition: dressing Pickle, our thirteen-year-old rescue cat, in her festive outfit and awaiting the annual expression of simmering betrayal. For most of the year, she is the perfect picture of feline serenity. We adopted her at two, and she has always been quiet, affectionate and gentle, the kind of cat who seems morally opposed to scratching or biting. She floats through the house like a furry little peace ambassador who just wants cuddles, naps and the occasional handful of "Dreamies". But absolutely none of that matters once the 1st of December arrives. Because the moment the tiny Santa waistcoat and matching hat come out of storage, she becomes a completely different creature. One second she is purring; the next she transforms into a furry gargoyle, frozen in place, glowing with the righteous fury of a cat who is certain she deserved a better family.

If she could speak, I am convinced we would immediately need therapy. Her expression alone says things like, “I was promised a loving forever home, not forced participation in costume drama,” and “Remove the hat, peasants.” Every year, without fail, her face announces, “I know where you sleep,” which is exactly the point when we begin our annual family joke about how she is going to take revenge on us in the night. Is it a joke? Is it a warning? Hard to say. She certainly looks like she is creating a mental spreadsheet of who will suffer first. We're near the top, just below the vet!

The dressing process itself has somehow taken on the gravitas of a sacred ceremony. Someone always announces, far too dramatically, “Fetch the outfit,” as though retrieving ancient royal regalia. We gather around her in a circle of hopeful idiots, gently fastening the waistcoat and tying the tiny bowtie while she stares straight ahead, perfectly still, accepting her fate like a Victorian child posing for a very grim portrait. Once dressed, she refuses to move at all. She sits there, stiff as a statue, oozing disdain. Her face is so thunderous that if we hung a framed print of it on a gallery wall, it would probably win awards.

Despite the theatrical judgement radiating from her tiny furry body, the love we have for her is immense. She is deeply cherished, even when she looks like she is mentally setting fire to the Christmas tree. And strangely, this annual feline outrage has become part of what makes the season feel complete for us. There is something beautifully ridiculous about the whole ritual, and something weirdly comforting in how consistent it is. She glares, we giggle, and eventually she forgives us, usually after she has knocked something off a table to re-establish emotional dominance.

Christmas simply wouldn’t be Christmas without her yearly expression of festive fury. It is iconic. It is dependable. And yes, she will be wearing the outfit again next year, assuming we survive the night.