As can be seen in the photo below, the young’un cat’s eyes remain extremely googly; they put out plenty of light, and are not bound by space or time. Paired with Rudolph, there at the head of the team pulling the sleigh, the young’un cat would guarantee that Santa would never get lost, no matter how much fog or liquor he might encounter.
It is apparent, at least to me, that the jello-bellied gift-spewer Needs the young’un cat.
Last year I additionally opined that employment would be good for the young’un cat, to absorb his excess energies; among the excess, then, was his intensive involvement in a sleep-deprivation experiment, with myself as the subject.
This is what he was then doing to me:
No matter when I try to sleep, he eventually turns against it. And then works diligently, until it cannot be. He has decided, for example, that whatever portions of my body are covered with hair, he may assault, as I sleep, with his claws. My scalp is now so routinely excavated that I am thinking of hiring him out as a miner.
Because his excavating is always accompanied by operatic wails, I think I may hire him out as a musical miner. I have not heard miners emit sounds with this volume and intensity since those Welshmen in How Green Was My Valley.
I have also begun referring to the young’un cat as The Dream Crusher. This is because of late I have been gifted with extraordinary dreams; while there is a method I use to pull dreams into the waking state, most often these days that process is derailed, when the young’un cat decrees that my skull should be employed as his dartboard, or elects to eagerly ride his tricycle across my forehead.
Fortunately, over the ensuing year we have come to an accommodation. He now understands what is a Sane hour to arise, and does not assault me with either claws or operas unless I attempt to slumber past said hour.
He has also gained much, in work experience. The Manor, as I believe I have previously referenced (I haven’t?), has become a vortex of four-legged welfare recipients, waves of deer flowing through each day to stare at me with those doe eyes that claim they will drop immediately dead unless I shovel vast quantities of feed their way. They all have names, on their little welfare-recipient name-tags: Yearling Pet, Mom, Cutie, The Other Fawn, Dark Doe, Big Buck, Billy Buck Naked, White Head, Mr. Spindly Horns, Mr. Broken Horn, No You Can’t Get Through The Hole In The Fence With Those Antlers You Big Oaf, etc.
Anyway, the young’un cat goes out every morning to attempt to bring order to the horde. He has been fully accepted by these deer as The Ruler, or at least as something that should not be run off.
Through the day, he further observes their maneuvers, this time from inside the house. At times he is compelled to ruck rugs and shred curtains, in apparent attempts to communicate to them Vital Messages.
I find this carnage objectionable, but understand that there is nothing to be done: I will simply have to wait until he moves beyond it, as with the sleep-deprivation Horror.
The point is, the young’un cat now has much daily experience with deer. And reindeer are just deer with some rein in front of them. So he is highly qualified to rangle Santa’s people. And is willing to do so. So long as the frigid fat man forks over sufficient Money. Said funds are, after all, Needed, round this place. To replace that which the young’un cat, in his youthful zeal, Runs Amok.