I knew decorating would be a challenge this year. To my new little kitty, Dulcie, everything’s a toy. I’d have to be creative.
I dragged boxes of ornaments down from the attic. Dulcie wasn’t afraid of the creaky attic stairs, but she was no help whatsoever when I needed somebody to hand the boxes to.
Digging through the containers (and closing them before she could pounce on their fragile contents), I separated out all the indestructible wood and metal ornaments. I’d pile them into — what? Not the glass salad bowl; I could already hear it shattering, batted off the table.
I know. The antique brass spittoon, which, as a child, I regularly polished with vinegar and salt. I haven’t done that in decades. But for Christmas, it needed to shine.
I must have had a stronger arm as a child. This time, not a glimmer until I got out the metal barbecue-grill-cleaning brush. My fingers and knuckles got scoured, too, as red as Rudolph’s nose.
Strands of lights and ropes of golden beads — I could swag them, entwined, above the bookcase, out of Dulcie’s reach. If only she’d stop attacking the garland. Eventually I won the tug-of-war. Now my office looks like some sleazy Texas dive, where they hang Christmas lights behind the bar and leave them up year-round.
But the lights glow warm and festive, and Dulcie hasn’t completely dismantled the arrangement of ornaments. Yet.
Now for wrapping presents. Dulcie can’t wait.