If nobody saw your celebration, did it really happen?

If there were no witnesses to your wonderful time, was it real?

If you live every day like a holiday, but you keep it under wraps, is it still a gift?

Take it from the Undercover Enthusiasts: yes, yes, and yes.

December attempts to drape us all in the same sequins. We are summoned to sleigh rides, sing-a-longs,  and parties where people pretend they like oyster tartlets and small talk about campaign finance reform. We all keep wrapping the same scented candle and re-gifting it to each other.

All the while, we could give and receive light.

Just ask the Undercover Enthusiasts.

The Undercover Enthusiasts are the alumni of Tabby’s Place’s most ambitious colony cat rescue. Earlier this year, we had the honor of extracting one thirty-eight hundred cats and kittens from two sprawling, sickly scenarios. Most of these survivors will be dreaming under forever-home trees and finding treats in stockings embroidered with their names.

But some of them are still getting used to having a name.

The news travels slower than Santa Claus in Suite A. “Socialization” is the patient work of blinks and quiet company. The colony cats are still fact-checking the rumor that they are safe at last.

Helium is not ready to wrap your lap like a jaunty scarf. If you treat the suite to carols, Meridian and Tetris will scatter like the magic particles of a snow globe.

But make no mistake.

They may rejoice below the radar, but the cats who came from darkness are claiming the light. There is more than one way to “holiday.”

When he thinks we’re not looking, Tapenade does the tarantella. The cat whose secret sauce is “scared” dips himself in courage when evening comes. Tapenade does not have a TikTok. He does not make merry for others’ eyes. But in his own time, he unwraps life and gives himself the gift of getting silly.

You will not find them at the purring, whirring party. But Hydrogen and Hircine RSVP “yes” to one another. They are the quiet kids who choose cocoa and conversation over the big parade. They are most likely genetic relatives (as is the whole colony crew), but they are unquestionably family.

Gallium does not corner Chromium over the artichoke dip to ask when she is going to settle down. Polaroid does not belch forth his grievances. They enfold each other in the absence of expectations. They sleep head-to-tail, paw-to-belly, in a holy heap of unconditional love.

We cannot hold them, tuck them into cat strollers, or dress them as Mrs. Santa Claus.

They may or may not “come around,” that human euphemism for “turn sweet as a sugar cookie, by our definition.”

This is Tabby’s Place, where every cat is allowed to use their own recipe.

This is Tabby’s Place, where holidays have a hundred faces, three hundred sixty five days a year.

This is Tabby’s Place, where Vaermina is a gift whether or not she receives chin skritches.

This is Tabby’s Place, where the real party is the persistence of love.

The Undercover Enthusiasts are no party poopers. They need not fear that lump of coal called a “timeline.” These cats, perhaps more than any others, feel the mystery of winter light. They remember the cold summers of shadow and sickness. They survived so many years with no stars on the calendar. Now every square is circled, spangled, something to celebrate.

Sometimes they give us the gift of a glimpse. But there is no time that isn’t their time.

When you are loved for who you are, you get to bring your whole self to the party.

When you are safe at last, your “party” can consist of dreaming beneath fleece.

Now who’s going to make some oyster tartlets for Suite A?

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