Chinese New Year's Morning: The Cats Wake Up First

and you know what that means....

The cats were up. They didn’t care about my resolutions. They barely cared about the Gregorian calendar. They just wanted breakfast.

They woke up with opinions, as always. They don’t care if it’s regular New Year’s Day or Lunar New Year’s Day. They don’t care if I woke up with goals and five-year project plans, or that I intended to haul myself back up on the wagon of resolutions I made (or, come to think, I didn’t make, since I was following my cats’ advice).

According to the Western calendar, we’ve already been two months into the year of the Fire Horse. But take a look at the lunar New Year, and you’ll see that the wild horse has just galloped in, brimming with fire, and that the snake is slithering out.

Before we even got to have our first cup of java, and before we could declare a theme for the year or vow to do seven rounds of 25 Hindu squats and 15 Hindu push-ups a day, the cats have already conducted their opening ceremony:

The Sonic Boom (Nebula): Has initiated the festivities by body-slamming the bedroom door.

The Clearing of the Sacred Space (Hugo): Has meticulously swiped my pens and a flying squirrel figurine off my desk.

The Vocal Manifestation (Newbery): Has begun a high-decibel protest, demanding breakfast with the righteous indignation of someone who has been betrayed by the clock across three lifetimes.

The Interdimensional Download (Callie): Has achieved a state of total stillness, staring into the middle distance. He is clearly hopping through parallel universes while his physical vessel remains anchored to the rug.

And this, according to the cats, is how a year should begin.

No resolutions. No revolutions. No reinventions.

Just a continuation of being exactly who you are—confidently, loudly, and slightly sideways.

Newbery, shimmying her tail, observes quietly. She knows that beginnings may tread softly, hoping not to be startled. Rather like a cat.

Hugo negotiates the terms of the year with remarkable optimism. He believes most things can be resolved with hand-licks, head-bunts, and close proximity. He’s not wrong.

Nebula conducts a brief but firm inspection of the household energy. With supreme confidence, she determines she has maintained sovereignty across timelines and interdimensional space. She rejects desperation as want of confidence.

Callie, having forgotten that time exists, assumes it is a normal day and also a special day, and most probably certainly dinner time. This feels philosophically sound.

The cats would like you to know that:

You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to arrive polished. You don’t need a 7-part pre-breakfast workout plan.

You are allowed to enter the year the way cats enter rooms:

Alert

Curious

Unconcerned with proving anything

Ready to leave if the vibes are off.

So, if you do anything today, let it be this:

Claim your space.

Stretch your body.

The cats are watching.

They are rooting for you.

Happy Chinese New Year!

May it find you resting—and mildly amused.