NOT THE CAT (polyphonic prose story)

We live in the forest, far out from the closest town. There really isn't much of anything around. There was no chance, none, when little Mikey wrote that letter, we knew Santa Claus would never come. One year Rudolf tried, but the woods are too deep and dark, for even his nose to have shined. Santa's elves are always complaining that our house isn't special, and it throws everything completely off their schedule. Delivering presents to our home is way too far for Santa to roam. Still, I think there's an elf who comes down our chimney, to especially deliver presents under our tree. I have no proof, but last night something was standing high atop our roof. It was small, with a pointed hat, and didn't look anything like our cat.