Melissa and I celebrated the holiday a bit late, on Saturday, instead of Thursday. We also celebrated simply with a roast chicken, black-eyed pea and veggie salad, pineapple couscous, and a pomegranate for dessert.
The cats celebrated in their own way—particularly when they got the leftover fat and organs from the chicken. Each of them had much to be thank Bastet for.
Bea was thankful for what hadn’t happened every bit as much as she was thankful for what had: another year gone by without me murdering her—though the fact that I haven’t done it yet doesn’t mean she’ll let her guard down. She also has a whole list of things she’d like to be thankful for, such as Penny getting struck by lightening.
Sparky gave thanks for the stick end of his feather-on-a-stick toy. As far as he’s concerned, the feather is pointless—but the stick is a source of endless amusement. He also gave thanks for the bipedal “kittens” next door who love to play with him and are willing to trail a stick along the ground for hours on end so he can pounce, pounce, pounce. Finally, he gave thanks for the delight that is puff-in-the-catnip-canister, which he can kill-kill-kill, only to have it retreat back into the canister and be resurrected a day or two later for more kill-kill-killing.
Penny gave thanks for a home that is not a drainage ditch.
Archy gave thanks for soft things to knead against, like the feather comforter; the lycra-covered, stryrafoam-pellet-filled pillow shaped like a baseball; and Melissa’s basoomas.
Maggie was thankful for babies (aka hair ties) to tote about and give swimming lessons to, as well as the oddly lick-able television remote.
Damian felt he had the grandest thing of all to be thankful for: that he is himself. What could be better?