And with deep insight, both Beth Adelman and Wendy Christensen offer perceptive views of what cats, and Christmas, are really all about. Adelman asks, Can your cat speak to you? Which is something most true cat lovers wish their soft-pawed pals could do. And she shows how our cats do indeed communicate with us—or try to, if we will only pay attention.
Then, Wendy Christensen reminds us to strip away the stress and sham that the holidays embody for some of us. She shows us "… the antidote to the ritual madness that modern Christmas has become… The answer is right in front of us, dozing and purring on the window ledge in the sunshine." Wendy's wisdom eases away my own Christmas stress and returns me to the unencumbered joy I knew as a child.
We hope you will find, in this offering, a satisfying companion as you curl up before the fire with your own cats. And so, indeed, let the stories begin…
Holiday Sparkles, or Home for the Holidays
Amy D. Shojai
Crash -galumph -galumph - sküüüid -thump!
"Amy! Will you please get jour cat before she tears up the house?"
I sighed, and pushed away from the computer. My husband grew up catless. Mahmoud neither understood nor appreciated kitten antics, especially while he watched television sports.
Crash -galumph -galumph - sküüüid- thump! "Ameeeeeeee!"
By the sound of it, the eight-month-old delinquent had donned virtual racing stripes. She ran laps that traversed the carpeted living room and family room, slid across the oak floor entry, bumped down steps to the dining room, then finished with a claw-scrabbling turn around the slate-tiled kitchen.
Thumpa-thumpata-thumpa-THUMP!
Aha, a new path discovered… The sound grew louder as she raced toward me up the stairs and flew down the hallway to land tippy-toed on the guest bed across the hall from my office. I peeked inside.
Seren(dipity) stared back with blue-jean-colored eyes. Then she self-inflated in mock terror and began trampoline calisthenics (boing-boing-boing) on the mattress.
I quickly shut the door, confining the demon seed—my husband's name for her—to my upstairs domain.
Back in June, a friend discovered the dumped kitten napping in an empty flowerpot on the back porch and called me, her pet-writer buddy, for help. I had been petless for longer than I cared to admit. E-mail, phone, and fax lines kept me connected to my clients and colleagues, but I figured the kitten would brighten the long, sometimes lonely workdays. Besides, as a pet writer I needed a pet. So it was Amy-to-the-rescue, and love at first sight.
My husband wasn't so easily smitten. He still missed our elderly and sedate German shepherd but cherished the freedom of being petless. I convinced him a lap-snuggling kitten would be no trouble. Besides, the cream-colored carpet he'd chosen matched the color of Seren's fur. It had to be an omen.
The cat gods have a wicked sense of humor. They made me pay for that fib.
The Siamese wannabe had no off-switch. She talked nonstop and demanded the last word. She opened drawers and explored kitchen cabinets. She answered my office phone but never took messages. And she left legions of sparkle ball toys everywhere.
The colorful toys polka-dotted the stairs. You'd think a peacock threw up. The toys floated in the kitten's water bowl, swirled in the toilet, and bobbed in my coffee cup. And Seren hid sparkle balls everywhere to later stalk and paw-capture them from beneath household appliances.
Mahmoud quickly learned to check his shoes each morning before putting them on. He was not amused. I knew better than to suggest he should be grateful Seren only stuffed his shoes with sparkle balls and not—ahem—other items.
I'd managed to buffer the cat-shock effect over the past months by keeping her in my office during the day and wearing Seren out with lots of games before Mahmoud came home from work. Weekends proved a challenge. By Monday morning, my husband reached his kitty threshold and welcomed a return to the cat-free zone at work.
But now the holidays loomed. Mahmoud looked forward to two weeks at home, two weeks of relaxation, two weeks of napping on the couch in front of the TV.
Two weeks of sharing the house with "the devil."
It would indeed be a Christmas miracle if we survived with sense of humor intact.
In the past we'd often visited my folks over the holidays, where we enjoyed a traditional snowy Indiana Christmas morning, stocking stuffers, decorated tree, lots of relatives, and a sumptuous turkey dinner. This year we planned a quiet celebration at home in Texas, so snow wasn't an option. But I wanted to decorate with lots of holiday sparkles to make the season as festive as possible.
"A Christmas tree? Don't cats climb trees?" Mahmoud's you-must-be-insane expression spoke volumes. He'd already blamed Seren for dumping his coffee on the cream-colored carpet. Maybe matching fur color wasn't such a great omen after all.
But 'tis the season of peace on earth, and I wanted to keep the peace—and the cat. So I agreed. No tree.
Mahmoud didn't particularly care if we decorated at all since Christmas isn't a part of his cultural or religious tradition. But he knew I treasured everything about the holidays. So we compromised.
Gold garlands with red velvet poinsettias festooned the curving staircase, wrapping around and around the banisters and handrail. Gold beads draped the fireplace mantel, with greeting cards propped above. A red cloth adorned the dining room table, while in the living room, the candelabra with twelve scented candles flickered brightly from inside the fireplace. Other candles in festive holders decorated the several end tables, countertops, and the piano.
The centerpiece of Christmas decor was the large glass-top coffee table placed midway between the fireplace, TV, and the leather sofa. The wooden table base carried puppy teeth marks, silent reminders of the dog Mahmoud and I still mourned. Since we had no tree, the table served to display brightly wrapped packages that fit underneath out of the way. And on top of the table I placed Grandma's lovely three-piece china nativity of Mary, Joseph, and the Baby in the manger.
Grandma died several years before, right after the holidays. Each family member was encouraged to request something of hers to keep as a special remembrance, and I treasured Grandma's nativity. The simple figurines represented not only the Holy Family but evoked the very essence of Grandma and every happy family holiday memory.
Of course, Seren created her own memories and put her paw into everything. It became her purpose in life to un-festoon the house. She "disappeared" three of the faux poinsettias, risked singed whiskers by sniffing candles, and stole bows off packages.
She decided the red tablecloth set off her feline beauty. She lounged in the middle of the table beneath the Tiffany-style shade that doubled as a heat lamp, shedding tiny hairs onto the fabric. As every cat lover eventually learns, fur is a condiment. But Mahmoud had not yet joined the cat-lover ranks and was not amused.
"Off! Get off the table. Amy, she'll break your glass lampshade."
Crash-galumph-galumph-sküüüid-thump't
Mahmoud had no sooner resettled onto the sofa to watch the TV when the whirling dervish hit again. The twinkling gold beads dangling from the mantel caught her predatory attention. Seren stalked them from below, quickly realized she couldn't leap that high, and settled for pouncing onto the top of the TV. From there, only a short hop separated her from the ferocious mantel quarry she'd targeted.