Ah, Christmas in Los Angeles. There’s nothing quite like it. Chestnuts roasting on an open hibachi. Jack Frost nipping at your frappucino. Santa in cutoffs and flip-flops. It’s hard to get in the holiday spirit when the closest you get to snow is the ice in your margarita, but I was trying.
On the day my story begins, I was attempting to take a picture of my cat Prozac for my holiday photo card. I thought it would be cute to get her to pose in a Santa hat. Prozac, however, was not so keen on the idea. And I still have the scars to prove it.
The only holiday Prozac gets excited about is Let’s Claw A Pair of Pantyhose to Shreds Day. Not a national holiday, I know, but one celebrated quite often in my apartment.
I kept putting the Santa hat on her head, only to find it on the floor by the time I picked up my camera.
“Oh, Prozac!” I wailed after about the thirtieth try. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you wear a simple Santa hat?”
She glared at me as if to say, I refuse to look like a fool for the amusement of your friends and relatives. I’ve got my dignity, you know.
This from a cat who’s been known to swan dive into the garbage for a chicken McNugget.
I was beginning to think E. Scrooge may have had the right idea about Christmas when the phone rang. I recognized the voice of Seymour Fiedler of Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, one of the not-so-long list of clients who use my services as a freelance writer.
“Jaine, you’ve got to come over to the shop right away.”
I wondered if he wanted me to punch up the Yellow Pages ad I’d just written for him. Although for the life of me I couldn’t see how I could possibly top Size Doesn’t Matter. We Do Big Jobs and Small.
But he wasn’t calling about the Yellow Pages ad.
“I’m in big trouble,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m being accused of murder!”
Mild-mannered Seymour Fiedler, a man I’d never once heard utter an angry word, accused of murder? Impossible!
“Hang on, Seymour. I’ll be right over.”
I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door, just in time to see Prozac celebrating a whole new holiday—Let’s Poop on A Santa Hat Day.