This year we have Danger Cat.
This is the cat who, six weeks old and blind from infection, trekked across two fenced backyards, traversed a couple of pony-sized Labradors, and scaled a tower of architectural bricks to announce to my son that it was time for kitty adoption.
|The long and winding roll.|
Our eight foot evergreen doesn’t stand a chance.
We added more bells to the tree; different sizes and shapes
so that we could track her exact location like Norad tracks Santa Claus. Last night she used the tree bells to play
the trumpet fanfare from the Kentucky Derby.
I imagine the theme from Rocky will be next.
It’s no more dangerous to walk into our living room than it was to take a stroll along the Normandy coast on D-Day. This morning I bent to rescue a battle-scarred reindeer with two legs, only to sustain a massive hit from a red satin snowflake ornament shot like a missile from somewhere near the center of the tree. I’m still picking glitter shrapnel from my lipstick, and have the festive air of someone who’s been kissing the Times Square New Year’s ball. I can identify with Mary and Joseph’s dismay at finding three ice skating penguins and half a sugar cookie nestled next to baby Jesus in the tabletop nativity.
Our tree looks more like the result of an explosive blender episode than a holiday decoration. Meanwhile, there’s a black and white fuzzball swinging from limb to limb like Nadia Commenechi gearing up for the backwards high-bar flip on her Olympic quest for the perfect 10.
So, what’s the answer for the cat who has everything when
Christmas comes to town?
|"And now, grinned the Grinch, I will stuff up the tree."|
A sixpack of Scott Tissue under the tree. Danger Cat, roll out!