It started, as most of our household adventures do, with good intentions and chaos waiting in the wings. 

The garage was cold that morning, smelling faintly of pine-scented candles, cardboard, and last year’s memories. I hauled out the bins marked Christmas and set them near the door, brushing off a thin layer of dust. Wick appeared first, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, golden eyes sharp with suspicion. 

At fifteen, he had seen enough holidays to know trouble when it came in red and green. He sat in the doorway like a foreman overseeing an unqualified crew. 

Tigra, barely two and forever curious, was already circling the bins. Her storm-gray fur shimmered with soft orange streaks, and her pure white belly brushed the cold floor as she peered inside. “What’s in there?” she chirped, voice full of wonder. 

“Memories,” I said, “and tangled lights.” 

She looked delighted by both. 

Quigley arrived next, a little puff of energy wrapped in fur. “We’re decorating? We’re decorating!” he barked, tail a blur. He dove nose-first into a box of garland before I could stop him. 

By the time I carried in the new artificial tree, the living room was a battlefield of tinsel, bows, and enthusiasm. Wick surveyed the chaos with his usual patience—meaning none at all. 

“This,” his look said plainly, “is how civilizations fall.” 

The tree was brand new, taller and fuller than the last one, and allegedly easy to assemble. That part was a lie. Within minutes, metal poles rolled across the floor, and I was knee-deep in plastic branches while Quigley stole the instruction sheet and Tigra batted at a strand of lights like it was prey. 

Wick sighed, jumped onto the coffee table, and stared at me like a disappointed professor. 

“Don’t judge me,” I muttered. 

He blinked slowly. Always judging. 

When the final section clicked into place, I stepped back and plugged in the lights. The living room filled with a warm golden glow. Quigley barked in delight. Tigra froze, eyes wide and sparkling. 

“It’s beautiful,” I said aloud. 

“It’s climbable,” she corrected—and before I could stop her, she crouched, wiggled once, and launched herself straight into the tree. 

“Tigra!” 

The branches swayed. The lights flickered. Wick’s eyes widened slightly, as if he were already predicting the disaster. 

“Tigra, get down!” 

But she was already halfway to the top, tail swishing proudly. The tree leaned dangerously, and Quigley barked encouragement from below, convinced she was auditioning for the feline Olympics. 

Then came the inevitable thud. 

The tree tipped sideways, ornaments still safely boxed on the table but pride fully shattered. Tigra landed beside Wick, her white belly flashing as she rolled to a perfect stop. 

Wick gave her a long, unimpressed stare before turning away entirely. 

Quigley barked once. “Best Christmas ever!” 

I exhaled, hands on my hips. “We’re not even to December tenth.” 

It took the rest of the evening to put the poor tree back together. Tigra was reassigned to “observer” duty, Quigley was redirected with a squeaky toy, and Wick returned to his windowsill throne to resume his quiet reign. 

When the room was finally calm again, I turned off the lights and looked around. The tree glowed softly, casting tiny reflections across the floor. Wick stretched and settled beneath it, close enough to enjoy the warmth but far enough to deny sentiment. Tigra curled up beside him, her white belly glowing in the light, while Quigley flopped down across their paws with a happy sigh. 

For a long moment, everything was peaceful—our little family framed in twinkle lights. 

Wick opened one eye, looked at me, and blinked once, slow and deliberate. We’ll do this again next year, won’t we? 

I smiled. “Absolutely.” 

Because no matter how many trees fall or lights tangle, Christmas never feels complete without them.