CONGRATULATIONS to Victoria Harrison, who accepted my challenge to write and submit a longer piece to be published on my website. Here it is!
Victoria took part in a Girl Scout badge-earning project I conducted for the Fanny Seward Girl Scout troop on September 20, 2025 at the invitation of the Seward House Museum in Auburn, New York.
All the girls worked hard on their journal entries, but Victoria persevered, and now she’s “published.”
Below is part of her work called “Eggnog and the Monster.” Eggnog, in the picture with Victoria, is her beloved cat.
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Eggnog and the Monster
Page 1 of 22
At exactly 7:29 PM, I begin my official pre-dinner warm-up. It’s important to prepare your
vocal cords before the main concert at 7:30 PM. You must meow loudly to get the most
food. I am a professional when it comes to food. I am Eggnog. I am orange and white
and extremely fluffy, like a soft, handsome cloud that learned to walk and then decided
walking was actually terrible. I prefer staying resting; it is quite easier. Preferably on the
sofa. But at 7:30 PM, I transfer from a couch potato to high experienced athlete,
because food is the most important event of the day besides naps, pre-naps, post-naps,
snack dreams and snack time.
Our kitchen is the arena. My one and only arena. There is a long counter where the
bowls live, and a chair that I can jump on when on and some days when I have the
energy, I will pretend to be a mountain lion. The floor is tile, which is cold on my pink toe
beans in the winter, but I tolerate it because kibble happens here. The humans call it
“dinner time” and I call it “finally” or “only thing to live for”.
We are almost 2 years of age. My siblings and I were born in the same litter and then
somehow all stayed together like a band that never broke up, except we definitely fight
about who gets the microphone, actually not microphones, more like kibble.
Gingerbread is the big orange brother who thinks he’s in charge because his head is
large enough to hold all kinds of opinions. His head is the size of this yellow ball with red
strips that the humans call “softball”. Chex Mix is our brown tabby sister who is not
friendly, which is the polite way to say she has a personal policy of no, which I respect.
Lasty but definitely not least, Hot Cocoa is the smallest, cutest sister who is secretly a
battery of rage; she’s small, but if you stick your toe out, she’ll power an entire fight with
her very sharp claws.
We all hear the scoop hit the kibble bin and our ears do that automatic radar detection.
Dinner. 7:30 PM. The universe aligns. Finally. Angels sing. I step into the kitchen with
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 2 of 22
the confidence of a champion. This is my arena. One and only arena. I meow. I meow
again. I practice a little high note in case the humans forget that I am Eggnog. I am
literally right here, looking like a creamsicle that learned manners.
Then the Monster arrives. The littlest human.
His name is Grant. He’s eight, which is a kind of kitten-human that runs on juice boxes,
Doritos and iPad. He is part of the big family: not my litter, but the house litter. He lives
here, and he does three terrible things: 1) he chases, 2) he picks up, and 3) he squeals,
“EGGNOGGGGGG!” like a siren invented to ruin cats. I don’t hate him exactly. I hate
the concept of being off the sofa. I hate steps. I hate being awake. Yet, I love not having
to walk. It would be different if Grant picked me up and took me to the food but instead
when Grant is near all that happens are those three terrible things. It’s even worse when
he has Doritos hands. He thinks my body is a stuffed animal and his arms are a claw
machine.
He thunders like a herd of one, socks skidding on tile, hair flopping, eyes wide with evil
kindness. “EGGNOG!” he yells. He is smiling. Monsters always smile right before they
capture you. “It’s kitty dinner! Come here!”. That “finally” turned into “not yet”.
No. Nononononono. This is my moment. My arena. This is my 7:30 PM. My bowl is the
second from the left, the perfect spot—good angle on the scoop, not the closest to
Grant’s reach, and far enough from the doorway that I have a clear escape route under
the snack cupboard. Very tight but I will have to make do.
I am making my move. It’s a very athletic trot. This is one of the only occasions I’d be
athletic for. If you blink you will miss it. I probably look like a majestic lion, definitely. I try
to ignore the part where my belly sways. It’s natural so there should be no shame. The
human sets Gingerbread’s bowl down first because he is “so bossy” and “will yell if he
doesn’t get his immediately.” He pretends not to care, but the flick of his tail says: I’m
the boss. He does not like me, which is fine because the feeling is two-way like a road I
won’t cross. Annoying.
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 3 of 22
“Line up, friends,” the human says, because the human is very optimistic about our
teamwork which makes me question them because this human knows us. Teamwork is
normally a no.
Chex Mix slinks in sideways like a stealth submarine. Her ears are already in a mood.
Hot Cocoa bounces like a little brown marshmallow. How can she be so cute. I position
myself by my bowl and do my serious face—eyes huge, whiskers forward, polite but
intense. I even give an early purr to show I’m pre-thankful. I’m so smart.
Then a shadow falls over me. “EGGNOG!”. Crap.
A pair of small hands swoops. I make the sound that says, “I am a polite cat, but I will
explode. It goes like, “MrrrRRRRRP!”—which in English means, “Absolutely not, sir.”
Grant lunges. I danced sideways. It’s not exactly elegant because I am very fluffy and
moving involves physics, but I skate-slide and end up with two paws on the floor and
two paws on the baseboard like a rock climber who’s also a meatball. All I wanted to do
was meow because this is my arena. Gosh, Grant. Grant laughs. He thinks this is a
game. His game. It is not a game. This is dinner. DINNER.
Behind me, bowls land. Gingerbread starts crunching, loud on purpose, like he’s
chewing gravel to distract me. He is a drama king sometimes. Chex Mix has already
curled herself around her food so that it is basically inside a force field. Hot Cocoa
makes tiny happy biting noises. My stomach makes a sound like a closet door haunted
by a moth. It’s 7:31, I need my dinner.
“Grant,” the human says, “we don’t pick them up when they’re about to eat.”
Grant hears the words but not the meaning. He keeps coming. “I just want to HOLD
HIM!” he says, like “hold” is a magic word. It is not. The only magic words are “dinner’s
ready” and “second dinner.” Also “snack time”.
I try diplomacy. I meow. I blink slowly to show friendship and mind control. I’m so
intelligent. I rub my cheek on the cabinet to claim the kitchen as mine and let everyone
know I’m a calm, reasonable citizen of this house who deserves kibble. And I put one
paw—just one—delicately toward my bowl.
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 4 of 22
The monster pounces.
Hands. Underbelly. Lift.
“GRRRP!” I say, which translates to: “Everything in the whole world is wrong! UGH!”
Being picked up is an insult to my gravity. I prefer being close to the surface of the
earth, like a plant, connected to earth. He lifts me and I do the stiff-board body, which is
a well-known trick. When a cat becomes the shape of a plank, it means no thank you.
Grant giggles. “You’re so fluffy!” he says, which is true, but that is not the point. This is
really starting to get to me.
From inside his arms, I can see my siblings eating. Gingerbread looks right at me and
crunches louder. It’s rude. He is doing it on purpose. I glare at him with all the power in
my face. Chex Mix doesn’t look up because she never shows weakness. Hot Cocoa
stands inside her bowl like a pirate with treasure and stares at me like, lol. She could
probably care less about dinner.
“Grant,” the human says again, the way humans say your name when you are holding a
dripping thing above a new carpet. “Let Eggnog down, buddy. It’s dinner.”
Grant sighs. He lowers me, but he lowers me like I am a basketball being placed for a
photo, which feels like years. The second my toes graze tile, I melt through his hands
and sprint approximately three feet, which is a sprint in my book, because a sprint is
also a sprint. I throw myself in front of my bowl. My whole body makes a shield. My
head drops. My mouth opens. Crunch.
If my life were a movie, this is where the heroic music plays. Except then Grant reaches
again. OMG, this kid.
He reaches in a tickle way, like, “I’m not picking you up, I’m just touching,” which is a
legal loophole of monsters. His fingers scritch the back of my neck. My purr tries to
happen because I am weak in scritches, but my desire to consume all food atoms is
stronger. I growl-purr, which is confusing for everyone. Kind of me too.
The human tries a new tactic. “Grant, do you want to help me put out the wet food?”
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 5 of 22
Grant gasps. Wet food is called “good soup” by me because it’s the gravy. “YES!” he
says, and his hands leave my neck. He sticks his face close to mine; nostrils flared like
radar. “I’ll give Eggnog extra!” he promises. Yay, I think?
Very suspicious. I eat faster.
The wet food cans open with their little metal screams. We all pretend we are not wild
animals, but the minute the smell hits, Gingerbread’s tail goes straight up like a flag. He
abandons his kibble bowl—bad form!—and crowds the counter, king-style. I should
have just eaten his kibble when I got the chance. Chex Mix makes her I Hate
Everything, But Especially You face at the can. Hot Cocoa chirps like a tiny bird that just
found cake.
The good soup hits bowls. It is brown and mysterious and perfect. I stuck to my lane. I
will get more; I have to tell myself that. Grant is now a “helper,” which means he stands
between me and the bowl and points at things and talks loudly. “THIS ONE IS
EGGNOG’S,” he declares, as if he is calling countries on a map. Hmm.
I believe in fairness, mostly. I believe my bowl should be full and the others should be
full but somehow less tasty. I lean in for the first lick. Grant steps back. Then he steps
forward again. He tries to pet my face while I’m eating. Leave me alone, jeez.
If you’ve never had your face petted while you’re eating, imagine someone mitten-
mopping your chin while you chomp. It makes your tongue go sideways. It makes your
eyes do geometry. I look up at him with sauce on my lips. “Mrrp,” I say, which here
means, “Sir, boundaries.” Grant does not know boundaries.
He pets again. My purring cannot be trusted; it starts because petting is nice and then I
get mad at myself for liking it because tonight I am supposed to be a warrior. I am a
warrior. I push my head into his hand once and then try to keep eating, but Gingerbread
chooses this moment to slide his huge body into my personal space and pretend he is
interested in the invisible air next to my bowl.
“Back off,” I tell him in Cat Glare, which is a legitimate language. He looks at me like he
cannot see me because his brain is full of king laws. He leans closer.
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 6 of 22
Grant, noticing Drama, swings his attention like a lighthouse beam. “NO,
GINGERBREAD!” he shouts, and throws his arms out like a soccer goalie. Gingerbread
startles, his whiskers shoot forward, and he does a sideways jump that everyone
pretends they didn’t see. His butt bumps into my bowl. My bowl scrapes. My heart
stops.
“Grant,” the human says in the third-level warning voice now. “Why don’t you go wash
your hands before dinner? One, two—”
Grant skids toward the sink. There is the sound of water and the splashy argument
between Soap and Time. His hands got wet. He shakes them like a Labrador that
learned jazz hands. Droplets fly. One lands on my ear. I blink so slowly it becomes a
stare. Grant smiles apologetically, which makes my whiskers forgive him a little because
the smile is crooked and big like a sideways moon. It’s confusing.
I return to the mission. But the human’s phone makes a noise—pretty chime— and the
human steps away for a second. This is when politics get real: when there is no Referee
Person. Gingerbread leans. Chex Mix side-eyes like an assassin. Hot Cocoa is inside
her bowl again, standing with all four paws, which is breaking some kind of law but she
is small and cute everyone could watch her do wrong and just want to give her hugs
and kisses.
Grant, done washing, returns with his arms wide, a towel trailing like a cape.
“EGGNOG!” he says, because he learned nothing and also everything. His hands aim
for my belly again. Not again.
I have to make a decision. Fight, flight, or flop. I choose the fourth option: noodle. When
a cat becomes a noodle, we become very, very long and somewhat boneless. You
cannot get a grip on a noodle. It slides. It wiggles. It turns twelve directions and then
zero directions. I noodle toward the chair leg, around the trash can, under the snack
cupboard where I keep my emergency thoughts. Grant tries to noodle with me, but he is
a solid child and noodles are for cats. War is over. At least I thought.
Grant collapses to his knees, which puts his eyes on my level, and for a second he is
not a monster; he is just a kid who wants the soft thing to love him. His face has a
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 7 of 22
scrunch of disappointment that is older than eight and younger than forever. I feel the
tug in my chest where I keep the part of me that purrs in sunlight.
I pause. I look at him. My ears are not back anymore. I give him a slow blink, the way
cats say: you are not danger, you are mine. He blinks back, clumsy but trying. He
whispers, “Hi, Eggnog.”
From the counter, a sound: Gingerbread’s mouth crunching something that rhymes with
“my dinner.” I snap back to reality. The alliance is over. I bolt for my bowl. No more
noodling will be happening. Grant reaches again because I am irresistible, but this time
the human’s hand lands gently on Grant’s shoulder. “Let him eat, bud,” the human says.
“Imagine if I tried to pick you up while you were eating pizza.” This human needs a prize
for teaching the importance of dinner.
Grant considers this deeply. He makes a face like maybe that would be illegal. “Okay,”
he says, and then he does something heroic. He sits cross-legged by the dishwasher,
puts his hands in his lap, and waits.
In the quiet, there is just the sound of four cats eating and one small human breathing
like he is trying to be soft. Key word is trying. Gingerbread, deprived of drama, goes
back to bullying his own bowl. Chex Mix does the thing where she pretends she’s in the
wilderness and every bite could be her last before her death; it’s a good way to savor
every bite but takes too long. Hot Cocoa purrs so hard she vibrates and probably breaks
a law of science.
I eat. I eat until I am confident the world will not end for at least ten minutes. I lick
around the bowl in a perfect rotation, like a clock that only tells time by gravy. I do not
rush. I take my victory licks. I am Eggnog. I have earned them. This is my arena where I
have won.
When my bowl is shiny again, I sit and do my after-meal contemplation, which is mostly
cleaning my face but also pretending I am a philosopher. Grant scoots a little closer,
asking with his eyes. I decided I will be benevolent because I have eaten well and the
kingdom is stable. I lean forward and bop my forehead against his knee. He freezes. His
mouth makes an “O.” I rub again on purpose this time. He reaches his hand slowly, like
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 8 of 22
a turtle, and touches just between my ears. A good spot. My purr starts with a shy rattle,
then grows until it fills the kitchen like a small, happy truck.
“You did it,” the human whispers from the doorway, like Grant caught a star.
Grant grins. “He likes me.” This fills my cat heart up with joy like the wet food fills my
belly and mind with happiness.
I do not like to be too predictable, so I immediately stand and walk three dignified steps
away, then flop on my side with a dramatic sigh that says: behold my belly but do not
touch it. Grant laughs softly and does not touch it because maybe he is learning, I would
really like him to learn that the belly is a no-no square.
Gingerbread saunters by, tail up like a flag, but it’s not dinner time. He bumps my
shoulder with his shoulder. It is an apology disguised as “I am king.” I accept it with a
small, polite chomp at the air near his whiskers. He flicks my ear with his tail. We are
fine because we will always be brothers.
Chex Mix slinks past with her warrior face still on, but her tail tip is making that secret
happy curl. She pretends none of us exist because that’s her brand which as I said I
respect. Hot Cocoa jumps onto the chair like a popcorn kernel and throws herself at
Grant’s shoelace, biting it like it owes her money. Grant giggles and lets her drag the
lace. She is a gremlin, and we love her, everyone loves her, even strangers.
The human starts loading the dishwasher and humming. The kitchen smells like good
soup and soap, a combination I have personally tested and do not recommend. The
clock over the stove says 7:44 PM, which means the emergency is over and the night is
for naps and more dreams of dinner times.
I consider the staircase (steps: boo), the sofa (sofa: yes), and the sunspot that lives by
the sliding door even though the sun has gone to bed. I waddle—athletically—into the
living room and claim the sofa corner that has a dent shaped like destiny. I am that
destiny and I circle once, to stir the imaginary broth of comfort, and collapse like a
pudding that made it through middle school. Middle school is like a prison full of children
and men with mustaches who need deodorant if you did not know. My eyes drift. My
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 9 of 22
ears listen because they always listen, just in case someone says “treat.” I hear 8-year-
old feet pad into the room. They come slow, like a question. Grant’s bedtime is soon so
it’s odd that he is still downstairs, he should probably be showering by now.
Grant hovers by the edge of the sofa. He does not reach. He sits on the floor, same as
he did in the kitchen, which is basically at eye level because the sofa is a majestic
mountain of navy stitching with the tags of Love Sac. I love Love Sac.
He leans his head against the cushion and lets out a breath like he was holding his own
purr.
“Night, Eggnog,” he whispers.
I cracked one eye and looked at him. He is smaller when he is quiet. He is not a
monster, not exactly. He is a little human who doesn’t know the laws of cats yet. He will
learn. He’s already learning. He is like the Hot Cocoa of humans. He stayed on the floor.
He let me eat. He delivered exactly zero pick-ups during gravy time. That’s huge. He is
becoming a better person, a cat person.
I roll onto my back, which is my most vulnerable and my most dramatic position which is
also iconic. I stretch my front paws into the air like a dancer who forgot the music but
remembered the feeling. Grant giggles in a very quiet, cute way. He does not touch. He
just watches, which is the correct way to treasure a cat.
Across the room, Gingerbread thumps onto the rug like a bowling ball. Chex Mix takes
the high ground on the back of the chair, where she can judge. Hot Cocoa is under the
coffee table, plotting her next toe assault. The house sighs. The dishwasher wooshes.
This is my second favorite time of the day, it’s so peaceful and loving.
Sleep starts to come over me like a soft tide. I let it. Right before I go under, a thought
bobs up: I did it. I faced the Monster and secured the food. I overcame something, even
if that something is eight years old and wears socks with dinosaurs. I am almost two,
which is very grown up, and I have strategies. I have noodle body. I have slow blinks. I
have meows that start low and go dramatic. I have allies in unlikely shapes. I have a
human who uses the pizza rule. I also have plans.
Eggnog Stories by Victoria Harrison
Page 10 of 22
Tomorrow morning at breakfast, I will try a new maneuver called the Early Bowl Sit,
where I sit in the exact location where my bowl will be and become too cute to move.
Grant will probably try to pick me up again because eight-year-old learning is a zigzag,
not a straight line. That’s okay. I will noodle. Or flop. Or blink. And if he forgets at 7:30
PM, the human will say the pizza thing again, and I will eat and then nap and then eat
and then nap forever until I am a legend. A living legend.
“Eggnog,” Grant whispers again, like a prayer or a password.
I open my eyes a crack to show I heard, and then I close them because I hate being
awake and right now I don’t have to be. My purr runs on low, like a car in a driveway on
a snowy morning. I dream of gravy rivers and kibble hills and a sofa with no steps to get
to it, just a ramp of sunshine. In my dream, the Monster sits crisscross on the tile and
watches me eat, smiling big and crooked and careful, and for once, Gingerbread’s
crunching sounds like applause. Gingerbread must learn to chew or crunch with his
mouth closed.
The end of the day tastes like gravy and victory. I stretch one more time, the kind where
your toes do jazz. My belly is full. My sofa is warm. My family is loud and then quiet. I
am Eggnog: sofa king, noodle warrior, survivor of 7:30 PM. Tomorrow, the kitchen will
be an arena again. But for now, I sleep, because honestly, sleep is my favorite sport. I
am the warrior, Eggnog.
