In Service to The Gods

The time to protect the stronghold is drawing near. The Gods who have taken me in to live among them prepare, adorning the dying tree with the last few trinkets and bobbles. Lighting it as a shining beacon in the windows of the great room to summon their kind to revel and bring tribute.

I patrol the dwelling, keeping just out of sight while observing their elaborate rituals. I have gleaned from the last two years among them that once the cold begins to settle upon the realm beyond the door, the Gods must begin to prepare for the Great Exchange. It seemed only a short time since the first great feast I had witnessed, yet they remain unsatisfied.

For weeks the deafening bells have rung daily to alert the long-haired Goddess of the domicile to the offerings left just outside. The language of the Gods is guttural and difficult to understand, though over time I have learned to recognize the word for offerings as “gifts” in their native tongue. Close observation tells me that these are things they acquire as tribute for the large gathering and ritual to come.

Tonight will be the Gathering, when visiting Gods descend upon our lands in great number. As they enter our home some of them tower over my Gods, while others struggle with the rituals and ways of their people. Perhaps different tribes have different customs? All the young are equally loud and seem to not have a grasp of their own abilities. The one my resident Gods call “Linda” seems to always have the smallest and frailest with her and it summons its elders with tireless screams. They glory in its presence and cater to its every whim. Could it be that the smallest of their kind rule them all?

There is no time to investigate further as the Grand Feast begins and all are welcomed to the large table. All but I, whom they shoo and scold for trying to partake in their customs. The male of my domicile Gods reprimands me, reciting the phrase “bad cat” as I make my escape to higher ground. I am not sure of the meaning of these words, yet my intuition tells me that it is most certainly not a term of endearment.

I wait patiently for the feast to end and often am rewarded for my tolerance of such rude treatment.

 As the Gods begin to gather around the dying tree, the long-haired God pats her lap and invites me to watch. I leap nimbly into her embrace and remain still as she showers me with adoration, stroking my back and caressing my ears. I allow this as inadequate but appreciated apology.

Then, it begins.

The young Gods are ruthless as they destroy the bright paper wrapped around the offerings, their shrill screams deafening in the ensuing carnage. The elder Gods seem to take pleasure in their shouts, urging the smaller ones to continue with their savagery.

The older Gods are much more subdued with their actions. Many of them carefully remove the loud paper layer to fold the material until it is small enough to fit into the void bags, where all that the Gods deem unworthy disappears. One of them carries the void bag through the others chanting “Trash” as they all contribute.  They too seem pleased with their “gifts”, however unlike the smaller Gods, the large ones respond with embraces and awkward show of emotion rather than screams.

I take this time to examine the modes of transportation that each offering was removed from. The Gods call these odd devices “boxes”. Some of these are smooth beneath my paws, while others feel rough. They ignite in me the overwhelming need to claw and bite, I have yet to discover why.  In the remains of the offerings, there is a “box” that I cannot seem to resist. I am compelled as if by magic to see if I can fit the whole of my body within. I resolve to maneuver the bulk of my body into its comforting confines to continue to keep watch over the remainder of their proceedings. My actions seem to please the Gods, as they observe and make throaty noises I have learn to attribute to praise.

Once this odd ceremony is complete, the Gods converse well into the night. There is no doubt in my mind they are discussing the strategies they will deploy during the coming War against the sky. If the previous two years was any indication, in a weeks’ time the sky will be alight with the weapons of the Gods. I have no inkling as to the motivations of this war against the sky. Personally, I find it loud and foul smelling and I do not partake; however, I will not be the one to question their will. It never lasts long, and they sing the praises of Ol Lang Syne in tribute to what I presume to be their fallen to signal the battle is over.

As I watch the Gods converse, I take note of their differences. My native Gods seem more respected by the invaders. Though they do not receive the most offerings, they are granted the most gratitude from the others. While most of these Gods seem active and full of energy, my native Gods are more subdue and tend to watch over the rest. Truly, my Gods are the most feared and respected of them all.

Night falls quickly, and the intruders of our domain begin to retreat one by one. The smaller ones always accompanied by at least one or two of the elder Gods. The one called “Linda” leaves with the tiny God resting in her arms, mostly likely to reserve it’s strength before the battle of the sky. Surely, a God with the power to summon others with it’s voice will be a valued ally.

My Gods wait until the others have gone, and then begin to clear away the destruction left in the wake of the rituals. The male God provides me with sustenance, scraping scraps of meat and bits from the plates into my bowl before joining the long-haired female God. I feast as I observe them. One would think that the others could have helped them before retreating.

Once the work is done, my Gods look over their tribute and discuss their accomplishments before retreating to their chambers. They call out to me and bid me follow. I do so, as I believe they have charged me with the task of watching over them as they rest. I do not know what I have done to earn such trust but this charge I accept. The Gods have giving me a home, food in my belly and a bed to call my own, though I prefer to share theirs which they will often allow. Standing watch into the night is a small price to pay for their kindness and affection.

I admit it is difficult to suffer their reprimands when I do protect them from what the long-haired female God calls “a bug”. Though, I assume the term the short haired God uses has something to do with it. I will have to endeavor to learn what the phrase “It’s three A.M. for chrissakes!” means. In the mean time I will keep ever vigilant in my watch and hope the lizard I have left for them on the tile floor in front of their throne will suffice. It is the one place I know they won’t miss it.