On the first day of December, the universe gave to me—

A busted knee, a twisted string of garland, and a cat with an attitude problem.

I don’t need any of these things but I have all three, warring for my attention as I roll to a stop at the bottom of my porch steps after tripping over a rogue cat. She meows and scampers after me, offering a sandpaper lick on the back of my hand—like she’s not the reason I’m stretched out across the sidewalk in front of my little house like a CSI: Annapolis cold open, sparkly garland twisted around my ankle.

Oliver lets out a plaintive meow as I haul myself into a seated position, inspecting my knee. My tights are ripped and I’ll have a hell of a bruise, but it’s not bleeding . . . much. I suppose it could be worse.

Then I see that the feline responsible for my early-morning acrobatics is holding a piece of heavyweight cardstock with gold foil between her tiny, pointed teeth and my positivity plummets.

“It could have waited until later, Oliver,” I grumble, giving her a pet while she deposits the invitation in my lap.

Frankly, it could have waited until never.