By SCOTT SAALMAN
Scaramouch
Oh, Cat-mas Tree
Oh, Cat-mas Tree
Much displeasure thou can’st give me
I used to not be a cat person – until I was forced to open my home up to two of them.
A white, male cat named Cash. And Coppola, another male, way overweight, who always looks like he’s donning a black and white tuxedo that’s busting at the seams.
Both cats were strays conveniently delivered to my door by 1) my son who was trying to impress a girl on a first date by rescuing one from the street (alas, there wasn’t a second date) and 2) a girlfriend who rescued one from the cold but then ditched me a week later, making me the stray (the cat remained; she didn’t).
Now then, let me tell you about a Christmas past (not too long ago) involving a fake tree and my two very real cats.
It started innocently enough. Cash, the cutest and most agile of the two (by agile, I mean at least he can walk without his swinging belly dusting the floor), climbed into the tree and scaled the fake branches. I took a photo of him staring at me from within the tree. It got raves on Facebook. I managed to airlift cute Cash from the tree without breaking any ornaments.
CASH: Unbeknownst to Scott, I was actually on a scouting mission to determine the plastic structure’s weak points for future toppling and total household domination.
COPPOLA: I admired how surreptitiously Cash pulled off his mission. He was so slinky and sneaky and stealthy. Not once did the tree shake. Scott would not have even known Cash was even inside the tree. But we wanted him to notice. That was part of our plan. That’s why Cash meowed in a majorly sweet way to get Scott’s attention. Scott’s a sucker for this.
CASH: That was the beauty of our plan. Sure enough, as hoped, Scott fell for my feigned feline cuteness and took my photo. I did not dare bat at any of those shiny ornaments surrounding me, for that would’ve alarmed Scott and caused him to use that irksome squirt bottle. He’s always saying, “make my day” or “do you feel lucky, punk?” before squirting us.
COPPOLA: Oh, such low-hanging ornament fruit dangling before Cash, yet my fur brother didn’t take the bait! Such self-restraint demonstrated by Cash.
CASH: How desperately I wanted to swipe at that angel ornament, and the gingerbread man, and the Santa—
COPPOLA: Such willpower.
CASH: By me avoiding havoc, Scott assumed all was right in his sad little people world. He never suspected what we ultimately had in store for his shiny tree.
COPPOLA: Such a man-fool. Purr. Purr. Hi-Five me, Cash!
CASH: Ouch, damn it, Coppola! Hiss. Hiss.
COPPOLA: Sorry. I forgot. I’m not declawed.
Now, fast forward a few days. While I was in the office, my daughter Delaney texted photos showing our freshly-fallen Christmas tree, each cat positioned beside the daytime destruction, triumphant, like proud lions gloating over a downed water buffalo.
It wasn’t enough to simply toy around with a few ornaments. They took out the whole damn tree. Perhaps the haloed dachshund ornament topping the tree – in memory of our dead dog – put the cats over the edge. Such intense jealousy.
I posted the photos on Facebook of course. One “friend” recommended positioning orange peels beneath the tree to keep the cats away. “We tried it at our house, and it really did work,” she wrote.
Photo provided by Scott Saalman
Peeling oranges seemed too labor intensive. Rolling oranges at the cats approaching the tree seemed more entertaining.
Another “friend” commented, “Hang it from the ceiling or nail it to the wall.”
I assumed he meant the tree and not the cats. I was in no mood to turn my living room into a movie set for The Poseidon Adventure or having a PETA protest in my front yard.
Foolishly, I re-stood the tree.
Later that night, there arose such a clatter. Cash had somehow gotten trapped headfirst inside a Walmart bag. In blind panic, he bounced off the walls like a pinball as he tried to escape.
Then it happened.
Running full speed down the hallway, still caught in the bag, possibly even on the verge of suffocation, Cash collided with the tree, his trajectory as perfect as an Earl Anthony bowling ball striking the head pin. Before I could yell in anger a certain favorite word of mine (“timber” it was not), I helplessly watched the tree crash to the floor again, ornaments rolling here and there, an empty Walmart bag now with a big hole in its bottom left behind, the newly-freed cat nothing but a white flash before disappearing into the kitchen.
Days passed but still the green heap that had once been a lovely Christmas display remained on the floor. I couldn’t muster the energy to upright the tree, my Christmas spirit shattered like a pawed glass ornament. It was no use to re-stand the tree a second time. It would only be the target of yet another toppling.
Delaney and I walked around or stepped over the felled tree. The cats, of course, had nothing to do with the downed tree after that. They yawned and went into rooms for a nap, dreaming up new challenges and ways to achieve household domination.
Welcome to our Habitat for Inhumanity.
I pondered a new Christmas tradition: Decorate a tree but leave it on its side on the floor. That or improve my accuracy at rolling oranges.
Scott Saalman also writes columns for the Dubois County Herald and the Evansville Courier & Press. He is now a proud Fishers resident. You can reach him at scottsaalman@gmail.com.