A Purr-fect Christmas

The cat-head ornament started out as a joke. It began when my parents bought their first house when I was a little boy. We moved in around Christmastime and things were sort of tight financially for us. As a housewarming gift Uncle Owen gave us a fake Christmas tree and a set of colored lights that he got out of the Trash & Treasure Bin down at the town dump. The Trash & Treasure Bin was that area set aside where people would put their unwanted but ‘usable’ junk for others to take. Oftentimes, too, litters of kittens or dogs would be dropped off for any soft-hearted souls who wanted a free pet. For those which weren’t taken right away, Uncle Owen made sure they were fed and stayed warm. Taking care of the animals brought Uncle Owen to the ‘Bin’ daily which put him in a good position to have first choice of the treasures that were dropped off. He considered it good fortune then that someone found no use for an old artificial Christmas tree and lights. He knew exactly who could use these. Uncle Owen was always a thinker.

The tree and lights were accepted graciously, although a bit hesitantly, by my parents. It was not what they would call a good-looking tree by their standards. But it had the appearance of a Christmas tree, nevertheless. My mother thanked Uncle Owen for his thoughtfulness and added, “This will certainly hold us over until we can upgrade to another tree next year.”

Uncle Owen seemed a little taken aback and said, “Next year! Why, this tree has many good years left to it. And those lights - don’t they give the tree a nice antique look about it?”

My father and mother glanced at each other and sighed a bit.  Then my father thanked Owen again and said, “See you later.”

Owen winked his eye and answered back, “Right. Later.”

My father put the tree up in the living room then strung the lights on it. But there was trouble with the lights from the start. They would work, then they wouldn’t work. Then they would work again. My father got very frustrated as he jiggled every wire and tested every bulb. I heard him mutter something about Uncle Owen and his gifts but then my mother came in, looked at him the way mothers do and said, “Jim, you know he means well.”

My father finally got them blinking semi-regularly, which wasn’t what he wanted but was the way it was going to be. The lights were up and working and he asked us not to touch them for fear that they might go off for good.

Later that day as we were decorating the Christmas tree Uncle Owen showed up at my parent’s appointed time. He was in his Santa Claus outfit and his long brown beard was camouflaged with white talcum powder. Of course, at the time I didn’t know it was Uncle Owen. I thought it was really Santa.

I asked Santa if he wanted to stay and help finish decorating our tree. It didn’t take much convincing on my part, especially with my mother pouring him some of her spiked holiday eggnog. When we finished decorating the tree with our few ornaments, Santa lifted me way up near the ceiling, to the top of the tree where I placed a small glass angel. The decorating was complete.

Then Santa excused himself. He said he had to go out to his sleigh for a minute and that if I stayed right next to the tree while he was gone I would get my Christmas wish a little early this year. Those few minutes seemed like an eternity to me but Santa did come back with a small sack. I sat up on his lap and he said, “I was talking to Uncle Owen just the other day and he told me that you wanted a cat for Christmas.”  Then I remember his eyes twinkled  in an elfish way just before he asked, “Do you really, really want a cat? I’ve got lots of them at home at the North Pole.”

My father looked at Santa and said “If you…” 

But before he could finish, Santa reached down into his sack and pulled out a small gray straggly cat. He put it in my waiting arms and it made a soft “meow.”

But apparently it wasn’t a soft enough “meow” and my father’s two hunting dogs, who were sleeping in the kitchen, heard it.

“Oooowww, Oooowww,” they howled just the way they do on a rabbit track as they both raced into the living room, sliding a bit on the wooden floor when they rounded the corner. The cat, its fur standing on end, jumped out of my arms and ran to hide at the base of the Christmas tree.

By the time the dogs had sniffed her out my new cat had climbed part way up the tree.

“Oooowww, Oooowww,” they howled at the base of the tree. Through all the commotion the tree fell over and the glass angel from the top shattered into a million pieces. The cat got tangled in the old light wire as she tried to run away from the dogs. With all the confusion, no one thought to unplug the lights. Every time the cat moved the wire shorted out in her fur. Bzzzt. Flash. Then, “MEOW!”

Bzzzt. Flash. “MEOW!” Bzzzt. Flash. “MEOW!”

Santa jumped to rescue the cat just as my father jumped to grab the dogs. The two knocked heads and fell back away from each other, Santa on the tree and my father on the wires that were now strung out on the floor from an escaping cat. As my father tried to get up he found his own hands entangled in the light wires. The obscenities he was now yelling at Santa Claus were only briefly interrupted by Bzzzt. Flash. “OW!” as the wires shorted out on my father’s hands every time he moved.

The end of this story is that Santa reluctantly brought the cat back to the North Pole with him and my father tried to mend my broken heart by buying me a cat puppet. It wasn’t quite the same thing as having a real cat, though. A few days later I pulled the hollow rubber head off the puppet and with the help of my mother placed it over a pair of our brand new blinking lights on top of our brand new Christmas tree where the angel, if we had one, should be. This was something my father did not like: coming home from work one day to a cat head with blinking eyes crowning our Christmas tree. He wanted it taken down but my mother was laughing too hard and wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Plus we wanted it there and how could he argue with us at Christmastime? So the blinking-eyed cat head stayed. Except for my father, this event became one of our favorite family stories, and every year at Christmas the blinking-eyed cat head ornament took its place on top of our Christmas tree.

A crackling fire was burning in the fireplace and snow was falling outside.  Earlier in the day my parents had arrived from their retirement home in Florida. For the first time since their twin grandchildren David and Beth were born, they made it back north for the Christmas holiday.

My wife, Ruth, took out several boxes of Christmas ornaments from the attic and asked my father if he’d like to help the kids decorate the tree.

My father rhetorically replied in the holiday spirit, “Do you really think I’d drive all this way not to help decorate?”

Ruth handed him one of the boxes full of ornaments and said, “Here you go, Grampy.” Then she placed the other boxes on the couch next to him where he helped decorate the tree by handing his grandchildren the ornaments one by one.

He played along with the kid’s excitement - dramatically taking out each ornament and teasingly handing it to each one of them. Then I lifted up David and Beth in turn to place the ornaments on the tree. This continued until the whole tree was decorated. At least mostly decorated. There was something missing.

“Oh!” I said to no one in particular, “I know what is missing.” Then I turned to my father and asked, “Where’s the cat-head ornament to top off the tree? It should be in one of those boxes.”

My father pretended to search the boxes for it. “Can’t find it in any of these boxes,” he said,. “Must be gone.”

“How about that box over there?” I suggested with certainty.

After a few moments of searching he finally found it. “Oh yeah, here it is,” he said trying to sound supportive. Then as if I needed to be reminded, he said to me, “You know, we used to have such a nice angel for the tree until you-know-who came over and broke it.”

“Dad, that the cat ornament is the only ornament I asked to have after I moved out on my own. I like it. It brings back a lot of good memories.”

“I know, I know,” my father said as he looked at the cat-head ornament in his hands. Then with one last effort to try and change my mind he added, “Keep the memories in your mind but for the tree can’t you get something more appropriate than this ragged thing?”

The doorbell rang and both David and Beth ran to the door. “It’s Santa Claus!” they shouted. They aren’t old enough to recognize that it is really Uncle Owen dressed in his special red suit. Unlike years ago, he doesn’t need to powder his beard anymore. Now it is a naturally white beard.

He greets my father with, “Ho, Ho, Ho. And how is my little Jimmy doing?”

The kids giggle in excitement as my father, in a very strained but polite voice, answers, “Fine, Sir.”

My father handles this well considering he has been annoyed with Uncle Owen for a very long time. Actually, this will be the first Christmas they will spend together in 20 years. The only thing that keeps them civil today is that they are brothers and it would be inappropriate for Grampy and Santa to argue in front of the kids.

Santa takes a seat right next to the fireplace and both David and Beth jump up into his lap.

“Ho, Ho, Ho. Have you two been good this year?” he asked them while Ruth served him her special holiday eggnog.

Then Santa pulled out his little sack and asked David and Beth, “Would you two like an early Christmas present?”

“Yes! Yes! Santa,” They say together as they happily squirm in his lap.

Santa reached into his sack and pulled out two stuffed kitten dolls, the kind that you can press a button on their neck to make them purr.

“Mine is named Scruffy,” David said.

“And mine is named Princess,” Beth added.

They each snuggle up under Santa’s arms while pressing the purr button on their kitten dolls.

Then Santa looked at my father and said, “Hey, old man, Santa brought something for you too.” Then he gave his sack a good push with his foot to slide it across the floor to him.

“Can’t wait to see what this is,” my father said as if expecting the ultimate insult.

“Well, open up the sack,” David said.

Then Beth followed, “Yeah, and see what Santa brought you.”

My father, still suspicious of what Owen may have brought him said, “When I’m done cleaning up these boxes here. OK?”

“How long is that going to take?” Santa barked at my father. “I mean, you’ve got a whole six boxes there.”

“Who knows, maybe all night,” my father shot back.

Santa mumbled, “Suit yourself.” Then he asked me if he could have more “juice.” 

I poured another glass of eggnog for Santa then asked, “When you see Uncle Owen again can you ask him if he would like to have Christmas dinner here with us.”

My father added, “And don’t bring…I mean, could you ask Owen to leave any cats he may have at home if he decides to come over?”

“I’m sure Uncle Owen would be glad to come over if you keep your dogs tied up for the day,” Santa replied with equal sarcasm.

“I don’t have any of my dogs with me. I left them in Florida. Shouldn’t Santa, who sees all, know that?”

“Good,” said Santa, “Then Uncle Owen, I am sure, will be looking forward toward having Christmas dinner here with you.”

I put a few more logs on the fire then hung up the stockings on the mantel. By this time Santa was starting to feel the effects of the spiked eggnog, a comfortable chair, and a warm Santa suit. It wasn’t long before his head was tilted back on the chair and he was snoring. David and Beth didn’t seem to mind this sleeping Santa. They continued to stay snuggled up under each arm and cuddle their kitten dolls.

My father went back to picking up the six boxes.

“Why don’t you open your present now?” I asked as I handed him the small box that was in Santa’s sack.

“Does Owen still do all his Christmas shopping at the Trash & Treasure Bin?” he asked me as he reluctantly took the box out of my hands.

“I think he’s into flea markets now,” I said trying to lighten things up.

“Great,” my father said as he took the wrapping off the box. “I wonder if I’ll have to disinfect it first.”

He opened the box but hesitated before taking out the contents.

“Come on!” I said, “What is it?”

It was a little glass angel, all white except for a delicate gold colored halo on top of her head. The angel’s gown flared out at the bottom and underneath it was a clip for attaching it to the top of a Christmas tree.

For a few moments my father just looked at Owen who was still snoring in the chair. David and Beth were under each arm and were dozing off themselves.

I took the cat-head ornament and offered it to my father. Nodding toward the fireplace I asked, “Would you like the honors?”

“Why don’t you,” my father answered. His eyes were as glassy and shiny as the angel in his hands. “I’ll take care of this,” he said turning to the tree.

I tossed the cat-head ornament into the fire and watched it melt and burn away. When my father finished putting the angel on top of the tree he poured us a glass of eggnog. He held his glass up and said, “A toast. To Santa.”

I held my up glass and repeated, “To Santa.” Then I added, “And Owen.”

Our glasses clinked as we raised them up together. Between the snoring from Santa and the purring of the kitten dolls, my father whispered, “And Owen, too.”

Amen.

I suppose I have to call this fiction. Sure, I changed names and moved the furniture around, but, man, this stuff just doesn’t come out of nowhere, if you know what I mean. I’ll leave it to you to speculate which parts are truer than other parts.

This is one piece out of a series of Uncle Owen stories I wrote, all based on Truth (with a capital T) with many bits of truth (with a small t) mixed in for the details. A Purr-fect Christmas was one of my “Christmas” letters from years ago.

Enjoy the holidays no matter how you celebrate them.

Tim