I’m Snowball, the Adorable Rescue Cat in a Hallmark Movie, and I’m Sick of Your Shit
By: Gracie Beaver-Kairis
Tags: Satire, Christmas, Cats, Humor, Hallmark

Photo by Jessica Lewis from Pexels

**Co-authored with Catherine Weingarten**

When you adopted me from the Winterville Humane Society last year, I was so hopeful I’d be taken to the palace I deserve. But no, I ended up with your needy ass, where I’m spending my days sitting on the checkout counter in your super sad Christmas-themed antique store listening to your romantic woes that strangely all relate to Christmas.

If you come to me one more time with mopey deer eyes saying, “I guess it’s just you and me, Snowball,” I’m going to barf all over the next batch of the Santa-shaped, gluten-free sugar cookies you make. Just let me lick my own butthole in peace. I’ve suffered all year listening to you continually blathering on about how you don’t have time for romance, yet all you do is stare at hot widowers with a Zest for Christmas.

Ever since you hired a hot florist named Greg to spruce up your store for the holidays, you’re even more unbearable. Instead of just asking him out on a date like a normal person, you used me to get his attention. When you stuffed me into that humiliating polyester reindeer costume to cheer Greg up because his wife died five Christmases ago under mysterious circumstances, I could feel my cat ancestors who were literally worshiped in ancient Egypt laughing at me from the great beyond.

Also, an antique store is not an appropriate environment for a cat. You’ve got no scratching posts, no catnip toys, and my litter box is hidden down in the creepy basement. I tried to climb the Christmas tree and eat the star ornament at the top out of sheer angst because I have so little joy in my life. This was a cry for help, not an excuse for you to call Greg over for an opportunity to bond while gluing back together the star ornament that I guess was a priceless family heirloom…Oops! And then the tree fell on me and you didn’t even notice because you were making goo-goo eyes at Greg chastely nearby. I could have been crushed to death.

But I’ve never been a priority to you, have I? You cooked a spiral ham dinner to thank Greg for decorating your crappy store with light-up Santas. You remember what you fed me that night? Half a scoop of stale-ass Friskies and a candy cane. I ate better when I was a kitten slumming it behind the dumpster of the Winterville Diner, high on catnip, scarfing down a dead rat and half an onion ring.

When Greg left the shop door open when he was bringing in the life size reindeer topiary he ordered, I made a break for it. For those few days, I lived like a king. I shed the Wal-Mart plaid jingle bell collar you had yolked around my neck and terrorized the rodents of Winterville like the fluffy white warrior I am.

But then, that stupid asshole Greg found me and brought me back to your store. The two of you looked into each other’s dumb eyes and said, “Wow! The greatest Christmas present of all was finding Snowball… and your love.” No, the greatest Christmas present of all would be if I had owners who read at least one book on cat parenting and made sure I was properly vaccinated.

Now it’s Christmas, and that moron Greg is tying an engagement ring to my tail with a red bow and dressing me up like a snowflake. You two deserve each other: my brain is the size of a roasted chestnut and I’m pretty sure I’m smarter than the two of you put together. All I can do now is hope that the next of my nine lives is better.