It was supposed to be a peaceful December night. The tree was glowing, stockings were hung, and for once, Wick looked almost content. 

Then came the scratch-scrape-thump. 

The cat door rattled, and before anyone could move, our “holiday guest” returned—one very determined raccoon squeezing halfway inside, clutching something shiny and red. 

Tigra froze in her polar bear outfit, eyes wide. Quigley barked once—mostly for moral support. 

Wick, dressed in his elf hoodie, rose slowly to his full, regal height, paw raised like a seasoned warrior. His look said it all: Not this again. 

The raccoon blinked, unfazed. Wick swatted. Wrapping paper flew. Tigra yowled. Quigley cheered. 

And somewhere in the chaos, the raccoon escaped—still holding the ornament. 

The living room sparkled, the tree leaned, and Wick sighed in pure feline defeat. Christmas had officially begun.