There are days when the world insists on celebration and I find myself weighing the merits of participation. Today the humans have draped green across various surfaces — a tablecloth, a kitchen towel, something small and shimmering near the cookie jar that catches the afternoon light. St. Patrick's Day, they call it, though I have never met this Patrick and suspect he would not have approved of the color scheme.

The light through the windows has been returning for weeks now, each day a few minutes longer than the last. This feels more worthy of celebration than anything involving shamrocks, which I understand to be a plant but have never encountered in our yard. The junipers remain steadfast. The ponderosa pines do not concern themselves with holidays.

Gus has discovered something green in his kibble bowl — a small addition to the usual brown nuggets. He approaches it with the same methodical consideration he brings to everything edible. I watch from the sofa, noting that my own bowl remains unchanged. This seems consistent with how holidays generally work: much fanfare, little substance, and Gus gets the novelty while I get the regular programming.

The humans seem pleased with themselves, as if hanging a few green things constitutes a meaningful gesture. I suppose contentment can be found in smaller things than I typically consider. The light is returning either way.