This post is part of Teagan Geneviene’s Christmas In July blog hop. https://teagansbooks.com/ #Christmastime

#ChristmasInJuly #writingprompt #freeshortstory #PersianCats

Mr. Sugar v Ssssanta

Read part one here.

To please her – and to kill time while I waited for more “scrippy-scraps” – I wandered the house, poking my paws and nose into corners, nooks, crannies, and what-not.

“Don’t you mess with my tree,” she said, as if I wanted to catch whatever mange was going on there.

I didn’t expect to find anything, but I did. Five more small snakes – also ring-necks – huddled behind a nutcracker dressed in a policeman’s uniform. The nutcracker was dressed in a policeman’s uniform, that is, not the snakes. They were hardly hidden, but they were green with red bands around their necks, and they had blended with the – for want of a better word – décor.

“Back off, Boyo!” the longest of the snakes said. “I’d as soon take yer nose off as look at ye.”

“Why so pugnacious? Does it come as a package deal with the cheap accent?”

“Insult me, would you? Insult a poor widow with children to feed?”

“Da is dead?” one of the small snakes said, and all the small snakes wailed. Well, they hissed, but that’s wailing for a snake.

“Hush ye,” said the mother. “We all saw himself tossed out into the cold, and now here comes this cat, probably having eaten him and looking for another taste.”

She curled around the small snakes, who huddled together and gave me the collective stink-eye.

“I’ve eaten no one,” I said. “Certainly not, er, himself. It isn’t cold outside, and he was fine when I left him. That said, if it’s food you’re looking for, there’s a small pond two blocks to the west with any number of crickets and frogs.”

Even as I said it, my keen hearing picked up a minuscule thump from the fireplace. The glass doors were closed, as they always were, but a small green head with a red ring around the neck behind it peeked out of the vents where heat was meant to blow into the room.

“Daddy!” all the little snakes hissed, and rushed to greet him, the mother panic-slithering behind them, and with good reason: Mrs. DiMarco was coming back.

“Hide in the tree,” I cried, and ran past Mrs. DiMarco into the kitchen, mewing like a kitten as I went.

“Aww, Ragmop’s still hungry,” she said. She watched me, but she didn’t follow. “I just wanna plug in the tree.”

She plugged in the lights, but that wasn’t all. The tree didn’t just light up; it rotated and played seasonal music.

Around went the ratty angel. Around with the battered ornaments. Around went the wads of tinsel. And around went the pretty little garland of green with red stripes.

“Prettiest tree ever,” said Mrs. DiMarco. “I say that every year, but it’s true every year.”

She sighed in contentment and came back into the kitchen to give me a bite of a gummy orange cheese-like substance and a pinch of buttered toast to tide me over while dinner cooked.

My people, who knew my habits, telephoned a few minutes later to ask Mrs. DiMarco if she had seen me and, when told I was with her, asked if I might stay the night and avoid the ruckus of their party.

“Sure! He’s my little buddy, aren’t you, Ragmop?”

I meowed, as humans like cats to do, and jumped onto a kitchen chair, where my hostess could slip me morsels from her Christmas Eve feast: a surprisingly good beef roast and gravy.

While she washed up, I returned to the living room and “accidentally” unplugged the tree. The snakes dropped to the floor, the little ones hissing, “Whee! That was brilliant! Can we come again next Christmas Eve, Da?”

“We’ll see,” said Da, with a sidelong glance at me that spoke NO in a louder voice than any snake had ever had.

One by one, Da leading the way and the mother bringing up the rear, the snakes went back through the heat vents and back up the chimney.

Mrs. DiMarco caught me whispering goodbye and good luck and said, “Is that where those snicky-snakes are getting in, Ragmop? Good boy!”

She sealed the vents by duct taping grocery bags over them.

That done, she plugged the tree back in, apparently not noticing the disappearance of the green-and-red garland. Eggnog in hand, fuzzy slippers that looked like snowmen on her feet, Mrs. DiMarco settled into her couch and sang carols along with her tree while I purred in time with what was passing for music.

The next morning, there was a stocking full of chicken-flavored treats and catnip toys for a cat who had obviously been a good boy all year.

A WRITING PROMPT FROM ME TO YOU: Snakes

MA