The cats have somehow learned that this is the time of year that beings offer gifts and tributes to other beings for some odd reason. And this year, they want in. In fact, they have produced a list, and delivered it to me by way of their spokesthing Twinkleface, an imaginary ball of light from another dimension. I tried to explain to the cats that this custom is no longer quaint, but rather a multi-billion dollar commercially driven industry no longer rooted in spiritual origin. The unreal sphere of luminescence, while sympathetic, explained that their wishes were quite realistic and feasible.

I asked the fantastical illuminated orb in what holiday context they intend to receive their presents. "Dude," said the illusory emissary, "they're cats. They have no lord or savior, no battle nor exodus to commemorate. They just want stuff. They have no faith other than a perfect path to bliss," whereupon it suddenly vanished, trailing off to another reality to play opposite the late Sir Laurence Olivier and a block of Camembert in an adaptation of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Elysium."

Ursula's list was actually easy enough to conjure up (mostly):

One through three, done!

Number four, blasting her co-cat into space, would prove a bit more problematic. You see, I love Avatar, as I suspect she does beneath her food-bowl rivalry and occasional bath-mat spats. I dismissed her wish, thinking she would just be pleased to rule over the Universe with my full support. Which she did; once I pasted the bejeweled crown upon her glorious head, she pretty much forgot about blasting Avatar into outer space. Well, he didn't.

Avatar's list consisted of two requests:

That's right, my little fluffy white cat wants to be a spaceship, or at least, that's the humor angle he wants me to follow on this Friday Cat Blogging post. Let's just say for the sake of fun that Avatar does indeed, want to be a spaceship. How do we do this? My first thought was to utilize the ecstatic shamanic techniques of brujos and ayahuasceros, designing an elaborate ritual to shapeshift my little Persian cat into a mid-size interstellar vessel. However, it's late and I have to do a talk at a Kiwanis Club tomorrow for work, and such rituals run the risk of altering reality to such a point that participating in mass-hallucination and transubstantiation of matter might impair my job duties... slightly.

The next go was to take him to a quantum physicist and to zap him into his new identity but alas, it was late and the only skilled professional of any type was my downstairs neighbor who repairs toilets at Chucky Cheese. Twinkleface, who lives entirely in a realm of make-believe, simply couldn't be bothered to perform this magic when it was really needed. I had only two remaining options in order to secure this one simple gift; to Photoshop him onto an existing spaceship and hope he'll forget, or to throw him into the air at a high velocity, thus satisfying Ursula and at least giving him a moment's acceleration toward the stars.

I asked Avatar if he wouldn't mind going with the Photoshop option, and he looked back at me absentmindedly because he is rather absent of mind. That's it, I thought, I'll go with Photoshopping him and I'll hold him really close to the screen. Besides, these lists the cats have given to me by way of Twinkleface may just be a farce, a way for that artificial entity to push an agenda of its own, pretending that the cats wanted these things. That must be it; I've been played by antimatter. Avatar protested at being manhandled off the bathmat (imagine a blast-off) and taken over to the computer to approve his present. He squirmed and fussed. He didn't care about the damn spaceship; he wanted to be Avatar, a cat, free and able to give and receive love.

And that, my friends, is the true spirit of Cat-mas (I think); letting our loved ones be what they want to be... maybe a spaceship, maybe a cat, it all depends on the whims of the unreal and your own damn gullibility.