The humans called it “a small, sensible New Year’s Eve”…
Which is the kind of statement that makes cats immediately assume there will be a table involved, something forbidden on it, and at least one opportunity for mischief. The living room had been transformed into a twinkling cave of warm lights and soft shadows, the couch dressed up like it was expecting company, and a banner that said Happy New Year! hung a little crooked—because anything hung perfectly in a house with cats is either a lie or a challenge. Confetti had appeared in suspicious quantities, as if it had sprouted out of nowhere the moment the humans turned their backs, and on the coffee table sat an arrangement of party horns, ribbons, and shiny things that the cats were already mentally inventorying as “mine,” “mine later,” and “mine but I will pretend I don’t care.”
Four cats sat in a row like they were posing for a holiday card, party hats perched on their heads with varying degrees of dignity, and if you watched closely you could see the tiny pulse of excitement in their bodies—the barely-contained wiggle that meant the night was going to be interesting.