Please note this entry is backdated from the 26th of December 2017 and has been posted for context <3 These posts started out as facebook statuses and became so popular I have been asked to continue them via the blog <3
Moosings of Moo
The Ethical Code of Fitting and Sitting
Today is the day hoomans call Boxing Day. Ironically enough, though not surprising, is the fact that they have no idea that the name boxing day in fact originates from the felines of the past. As I sit here, full from the many turkey snacks I have consumed, and quite content with watching the old one, or should I say, the one who looks quite prunish in complexion, sleep, I thought I would reminisce if you will about the origins of this holiday.
There was a time, long before when the bearded wonder first learned to walk, or should I say swagger, when cats were not as obviously coveted as they are now. Cats, dare I say it, were mistaken for vermin, for pests. We were used only for catching mice on ships, only to be discarded as stray without the promised tuna fish upon docking in various global towns. Here, many of us starved. However, there was a light for all felines. Boxing day.
On the eve of Bubble and Squeak, as in, the day where the rising of the large white bubble into the night sky means many squeaking meeces are feasting on the hoomans’ left-over turkey carcasses and rotting green thingies… the feline world came alive. Among the crowded, cold and snowy streets of London, every back door became a haven, a sanctuary, for the stray. With many a box left discarded from the day before, and not only food, but mice to chase, the Boxing day left us with a full belly, and a warm comfy box in which to sleep without fail every year. And so this, my good hooman friends is why when a cat sees a box, we must abide by the ethical code set down by our ancestors, the code which decrees that if we fits, we must sits in that box and grace it with our presence. It is our way of showing thanks, thanks for the boxes of the past, and how they kept our grandmammies and grandpappies safe in the cold of night. For you see, boxes are not just a place to fit. They are a place to poop. A place where life begins and a place to trap hoomans with tiny heads if the timing is so fortuitous.
I must now return to stalking bae, who has become distracted yet again, though this time by a large black box. Why he finds this more interesting than me I’ll never know.
Be thankful for your boxes, for you never know when you may need a new place to call home. (Especially if you have a tiny head.)