I sensed treachery the moment I descended the stairs.

The humans were buzzing, squealing, adjusting their ridiculous matching pajamas, and there you were — my human — holding a camera like you were about to capture the birth of a new dynasty. Naturally, I assumed the dynasty was me.

Imagine my horror when you lifted the camera…

and pointed it at the children.

The children.

I strutted into the center of the room, tail high, fur shimmering under the tree lights like a celestial being. I positioned myself directly in your shot, giving you my most photogenic angle — the one I reserve for moments of national importance.

And you — you, my chosen servant — said,

“Pookie, can you move?”

Move.

Me.

Your muse.

Your artistic inspiration.

Your reason for living.

I blinked at you slowly, the way one might blink at a traitor who has forgotten their place. You looked away first. As you should.

Then the present‑opening chaos began. Paper flew. Boxes toppled. The boys shrieked like feral woodland creatures. You kept taking pictures of them, as if their sticky little hands were more captivating than my majestic paws.

A Hot Wheels track skidded past me. I leapt onto the largest present — the one with the prettiest bow — and claimed it as my throne. You tried to angle around me. I shifted slightly so I blocked the shot again. Consider it a lesson.

At one point, James dropped a cookie crumb. I seized it. He reached for it. I hissed. He cried. You sighed my name like I was the villain. I forgave you. Barely.

When the chaos finally collapsed into a heap of exhausted humans, I approached you with the slow, deliberate grace of a queen deciding whether to pardon a wayward subject. I climbed onto your chest, circled once, and settled myself directly on your sternum.

You whispered, “Aw, she’s cuddling.”

No.

I was reclaiming my photographer.

The tree lights flickered. The boys giggled. You snapped a blurry photo of me like I was some adorable prop. I closed my eyes and purred, letting you believe you had earned my affection.

But in my royal heart, I recorded the truth:

You betrayed me with that camera.

And I will hold it over you forever.

Lovingly.

Dramatically.

As a queen does.

Now I shall nap on your softest sweater.

Because you owe me.