It starts when a fully-grown tree appears next to the sofa. One day, no tree, next day, tree. You cock your leg, ready for business, and a rolled-up newspaper is slammed across your nose. A human is yelling, “for chrissakes Scruffy, get your goddam crotch away from the ornaments, ya dumb mutt!”
And your heart leaps! It's Christmas—that special time of the year when the humans mount a dead tree next to the fireplace and hang objects on its lifeless carcass.
But there is a big problem. You wish to bless this tree with your precious gift of urine, but the humans guard it valiantly. They place offerings under it to please their gods and start yelling the second you're within a sniff of pissing on its sacred trunk.
Which is now all you can think about. Frisbee loses its appeal. Food, with exception of anything extracted from the tree, is now tasteless and bland. Even surgery to remove a plastic star lodged in your throat does not weaken your unrelenting desire. One thought dominates all others: “Scruffy want pee on the fancy tree. Scruffy want pee on the fancy tree.”
But it’s so much more than that. You want to paint that tree-god in your golden bladder juice and the thought makes you so horny that you hump the leg of the coffee table a dozen times a day until your pee-pee gets sore.
Then one morning, just as you’re on the brink of losing your mind, the tree is gone. Offerings, lights, chewable balls are wiped from the face of the living room. You're stunned. Was it all a dream? Was there ever a fancy tree at all? And if not, why is your pee-pee still burning?
But then a couple of days later, you see the tree-god lying next to the dumpster in the alley behind your house and your mind is fucking blown. Gone are the fancy balls and lights, but it’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You study this fallen idol and realize that you're trembling. Does scruffy still want pee on the fancy tree? What if it's not as good as you'd hoped? Could you live with the disappointment?
But then you step forward, lift your leg and finally realize why the humans love Christmas so much.
The Cat: Everything bad about life, multiplied. More humans, more noise, more insufferable wailing they call Carols. Who is Carol? Swear she deserves to die.
The Goldfish: TBH I have not been following this conversation. Lol.
The Cat: Quite like this one, for reasons the dog will explain.
The Dog: Easter has one aim: kill the dog.
It starts when you find the murderball under the couch. It's round and shiny and you instantly know that it’s happening again. The trap. The humans want you to eat this and die in a pool of your own dog juices.
Disgusted, you turn your back to it: Ha ha ha, Scruffy not fall for trick this year! So, you go and eat some of the cats’ food but your mind keeps coming back to the murderball under the couch. So, you go to it again, just to look at it and feel mad at the humans for a while. It’s so pretty and shiny that eventually, you let yourself take a tiny, innocent lick. No harm in a lick. You want to examine it closer, so you roll it out with a paw. What’s this? Somehow, it has ended up in your mouth. Of course, you don’t bite down. You’re not stupid! You’re not going to eat it this year. Feels good though, this metallic ball clasped between your teeth, doesn’t it?
Then a human is yelling, “Who let him in during the egg hunt? Grab him before he eats a goddam chocolate egg and kills himself. The voice startles you into biting down so you just swallow the whole thing and get it over with. They don’t manage to murder you this time, and they're never getting the diarrhea out of the bedsheets.
The Goldfish: What were we talking about again?
The Dog: This holiday is about the dog being squeezed into a costume—usually a pumpkin—and being carried around the neighborhood. That’s it.
The Cat: Is that seriously all you understand about Halloween?
The Dog: Yup.
The Cat: You’re an idiot.
The Goldfish: Hey ya’ll. Whatcha talking about?
4th of July
The Dog: Many bad bangy noises. Hate it.
The Cat: Gotta agree with the Dog on this one. The worst.
The Goldfish: Have we met? I’m Steve.
The Dog: This one took a while to understand, but I’ve fully got it now. It starts when you’re locked outside because no one can deal with you today. Soon, cooking smells drift out of the house, and now hunger is making your tongue kiss the window. You’re full-blown body slamming the front door trying to get at the food.
You can hear the humans talking inside. They’re saying, “did anyone feed him?” “I thought you fed him?” “Ok well, someone go and feed him.” But no one comes then a squirrel runs past and now you’re chasing it.
The back gate is open, and you run right through, and now you’re chasing a car down the road—seriously, you’ve never run this fast. Your tongue is hanging out and you’re going for a personal record. Soon, the car goes into a driveway and you follow it and now you’re in a house.
There is a single human male and like, a thousand different smells. Is this guy cool or not? You test him by squeezing out a couple of drops of pee against a coat rack. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s cool.
Soon, you’re both on the sofa watching TV. He’s got this giant bag of crunchy things. You let him stroke your head, and he lets you eat direct from the bag. After a while, he falls asleep so you finish the crunchy things, lick a couple of strays off his lips, and go exploring. This place is filthy and, to be honest, all the smells are giving you a headache.
Eventually, you're back out on the street. It's dark and you’re just running wherever, living your life. A hand grabs your collar. It’s the humans. They’re all talking at once as they hug you and say they’re sorry. Back home, you get a huge plate of human food and they don’t even yell when you vomit on the hall mat.
The Cat: This day is about shedding onto the coats piled onto the guestroom bed. Period.
The Goldfish: Never heard of it.
The Turkey: Hey, I’ve been around like, a week. Can’t believe I've joined the family in time for Thanksgiving. Anyone want to fill me about what to expect?