Here’s a Christmas tail 
that I wrote today on the idea of what if my cat had been in Bethlehem (surely there were some stable cats around). All rights reserved.
Rascal’s Christmas Gift
Rascal was a cat. She had a marvelously complex coat, swirled brown and black with a few lighter shades of beige for highlights, including one patch just under her chin. She once had heard one of the humans on the street describe her coloring as tortoiseshell, but that title offended her. She had encountered a few tortoises; they were painfully slow and utterly refused to either be a game or a meal for her, simply locking themselves up in their shells. She was nothing like that herself. The very idea. Tortoises!
Many other things in the world likewise offended Rascal, for she had a marvelously complex personality to go along with her coat. Most of all, Rascal thought of herself as sufficient. Humans were convenient to live near, but if they all disappeared one day, she would still be fine. There would still be prey to catch, blades of grass to play with, and everything she needed in life. She had sometimes seen the other cats around the streets and stables of Bethlehem make friends with a few of the humans, especially the children, accepting touches from them, even purring.
Rascal, however, remained proudly aloof. She might have lived in a stable, but that was only by her choice, nothing more. She did not actually require food nor shelter from people, merely accepted it, and she certainly did not require petting. Never did she come to a call, and never did she snuggle up against one of the people in the town. No, she did not need them. She didn’t need anybody. She was enough.
The other cats recognized and respected Rascal’s dignified authority long since. When she walked through the streets or the fields outside of the small town, they would usually give her a wide berth, always keeping a wary eye on her, for Rascal was lightning swift with her front paws. Any cat or other animal getting too familiar with her quickly was faced with the sharp command to back off. Once Rascal had made her point, she would never push the issue on into a fight, simply resume her solitary, sufficient walk through the world.
The stable, even if it did smell like humans, was a comfortable place to live, and at least most nights, she wound up returning there after her daily routine of stalking and hunting. She had quickly worked out the schedule of the humans who did the evening chores and cared for the livestock. Best of all was the manger, which every evening was filled with soft, warm hay. Rascal would arrive shortly after this, allowing time for the humans to leave but not for the hay to have been consumed yet. The cows were slow eaters. In fact, the cows were slow at most things, and Rascal looked on them as she did the rest of the world, with disdain.
But she did love that manger. Nightly, she slipped like a brown-and-black-swirled shadow into the stable, jumped neatly up, and built herself a nest in the hay. The cows would give a bovine sigh but carefully draw back half a step and patiently eat only around the edges. Rascal, arranged precisely in the middle, would go to sleep on her cushion of hay, and the cows would leave her and the completion of their stolen meal alone until she woke up and went out to hunt again. They knew by now better than to disturb her, for Rascal did not share what she claimed as hers with anyone.
Thus, life proceeded through the daily routines, and Rascal was satisfied. She knew her world, it knew her, and while different humans came and went from the attached inn, and some different livestock came and went from the stable besides the permanent residents belonging to the innkeeper, that was no concern of hers. All humans were alike anyway, just as all donkeys and other animals were alike, and she needed none of them.
But then came that night. That night! Never would she be able to forget that night.
She returned home to the stable a little later and a little more tired than usual. Today’s hunt had involved a most-persistent and skilled mouse. Rascal had won in the end, of course, because she accepted no alternatives, but still, it had been a trying day. Trotting through the streets of Bethlehem, she stopped abruptly, one foot raised, tail waving in displeasure as she came into sight of the stable.
Humans. More than usual, and some of them even smelled like the fields in which she stalked and hunted. That was unusual; most humans who passed through her world and stopped at the inn smelled only like road dust. There were travelers here, too, but several of these strangers smelled like the open earth. That smell didn’t belong here; it belonged outside the city, and things out of place always annoyed Rascal.
Furthermore, there were angels all around the outside of the stable, including up on the roof. Rascal, of course, had seen angels often. She still couldn’t believe how oblivious the humans were not to see them. An angel here and there on some errand around town was a common occurrence. However, she had never seen this many angels all together. They were almost crowding around the stable, simply looking in the doors and windows, just standing there. Angels weren’t supposed to stand around; they always had a mission and were very focused in their movements, unlike humans. Rascal’s tail lashed at increasing speed.
Moving on up to the door of the stable, she trotted between two angels into the main open space where the innkeeper’s cows lived, with stalls for travelers’ donkeys around the edges. There was her manger, and she could smell the hay waiting for her. More angels were inside the stable, with the humans as usual apparently not seeing them. The normally restless humans were as still as the angels at the moment. Everyone, humans and angels and even the innkeeper’s cows, was riveted on the manger.
The manger. Abruptly, Rascal sorted out the scents further and realized the central insult. Someone was in her manger! Someone was lying in it, as if it were that human’s bed and not her own. Rascal’s tail fluffed out, and she opened her mouth and hissed.
Most of the angels and a few of the humans turned around to face her, the spell temporarily broken. The humans looked confused; the angels looked appalled. Two of the angels started for her meaningfully, and Rascal arched, reminding them who she was. Angels had never paid her the slightest attention before, and she saw no reason for these to start doing so now.
At that moment, a tiny hand reached up over the edge of the manger. The humans apparently thought it was just the usual stretching of a baby. The woman closest to the manger definitely did, and she smiled and cooed at the infant as most humans did on seeing one. Rascal and the angels, however, both saw the definite motion of that hand. That was not a random stretch; it was a silent command, full of authority even from a hand so small. The angels obeyed at once, resuming their former sizes (angels apparently were almost as good at puffing up when annoyed as Rascal was). They folded their wings back flat again instead of at full wingspan, and they turned their full attention back to the manger, ignoring the cat.
Rascal moved closer and then jumped up onto the edge of the wooden trough, still puffed up, tail still lashing. This baby might be able to command angels to leave her alone, but he still was lying in her manger.
In the next moment, as she landed on the wooden rim, Rascal got her first true look at the child lying down snugly in the cavity of the manger, pillowed on the hay. At once, her tail stilled, and her fur fell back flat as she stared herself. He smelled human, like any human baby, but there was something infinitely different about this one, and Rascal realized it. Creation recognized the creator, and then even Rascal bowed her head respectfully.
No, she could not protest. Not to him. Why the creator was here, she had no idea; nothing like this had ever happened before, not as long as she could remember. But if the creator for some reason wanted to sleep in her manger tonight, so be it. She turned to gauge the leap to the floor, preparing to jump down from the manger’s rim and leave.
“Rascal.” The voice was in her head, not in the room, and neither the humans nor the angels reacted. She paused on the rim, still with her eyes averted, ready to leave him in possession. “Rascal, look at me.”
She obeyed; she couldn’t help it. She turned and studied him. He looked human. He smelled human. But he wasn’t, and she knew it. His presence here puzzled her. How could the creator become human? Why would he even want to?
“I have come for them,” he told her. “It was needed, and this was the only way. But for you, my marvelous, fierce, independent Rascal, I will give you a gift tonight also. This night, I will give you what you always have longed for, yet never realized you were missing. Come, Rascal.”
He nodded toward his feet, and his mother, missing the entire conversation, smiled again, just seeing him waving and moving as any baby would.
Rascal jumped down gently into the manger, obeying at once, not even questioning why she obeyed. He filled up most of the manger, including the central substance of the hay pillow. She arrived at his feet and had to wedge herself in against his toes on one side and the hard wall of the manger on the other. It should have been a very uncomfortable position, but it wasn’t. As she leaned into him, the warmth, the contact, the touch felt delightful against her fur, and for the first time in her life, she snuggled.
“Oh, look,” the woman said. “The cat is trying to keep him warm. Good kitty.”
Rascal barely had a thought to spare for her usual offense at being called kitty. No, she wasn’t warming him. He was warming her. She leaned more against him, drawing a peace and contentment from him that she had never known. She still wouldn’t care to do this with just anybody, but tonight, here, now, this was heaven on earth. His eyes were closing now, and her own started drifting shut in response.
And Rascal – the marvelous, fierce, independent Rascal – purred.
