December 2001: The Christmas season was upon us. The tree was up, decorations were hung, presents were bought. Some were even wrapped. Gifts from out-of-state loved ones were starting to arrive.
Parties beckoned, festivities ensued, distractions abounded.
It was no wonder it took me a while to notice a few of the presents under the tree had been tampered with. Chewed on, to be exact. The wrapping paper had been gnawed off, ripped away, and in general ruined. Time must be spared to rewrap the packages.
Yet time must also be spared to reprimand the culprit responsible.
This was Murph’s first Christmas with us. He was still full of puppy zest and apparently mischief. With bowed head and downcast eyes, he evoked the epitome of guilt when he saw me approach him holding the presents.
“No, no, puppy,” I scolded. “Not toys. No chew.”
Even though he was full of puppy antics, he had never really ever destroyed anything before. He did rip one of our couch cushions trying to dig and bury one of his rawhides, but all we’d needed to tell him was “No” and he had listened. He never did it again.
He was the easiest puppy to raise and discipline from the first moment we brought him home. It seemed he only wanted to please us, and when he felt he let us down in that regard, he immediately changed to do better going forward.
So I felt confident he would listen to me this time. But just to be sure, I decided it was better not to tempt fate. I put the rest of the presents up on the piano out of puppy’s reach.
Christmas chaos resumed and the matter was forgotten about. Until it was time for another gathering. I went to retrieve some gifts off the piano we needed to take along, and that’s when I discovered the gifts had again been tampered with. Again the paper had been gnawed off, ripped away, and in general ruined.
“What the…?” I started to say, wondering how on earth Murphy could’ve possibly gotten to the gifts on top of the piano.
He came in, his eyes downcast again, his tail tucked. He looked so guilty.
But he also came in accompanied by his brother and partner in crime: the cat.
Mr. Meow strutted over to me, swishing his tail in the arrogant way he does, shimmied up against my leg, and almost smiled up at me.
In that instant I realized who the true culprit was. None other than Mr. Meow himself.
The tree lured him initially because he liked to bat at the artificial limbs and swat at the ornaments. He must’ve discovered the paper, and enticed by the crinkling noise, set to work terrorizing it.
But he also frequented the top of the piano, often sprawled out like a lounge singer while he watched birds and squirrels frolic in the trees outside the window.
He’d had access to the packages again. And like he had the first time, he was content letting his brother take the blame.
But I was wise to his ways this time.
“Bad Kitty, letting Murphy take the fall for your wrong doing.”
Murphy got a treat, the presents had to be removed to a non-Kitty zone, and Christmas continued.
Yet, every year since then, I forget this tale. I wrap presents with ribbons and bows, put them under the tree, admire my handiwork and walk away only to come back at some later date to find it in ruins.
But then I remember. I no longer blame Murph, and immediately remove the presents to someplace the cat doesn’t frequent. Christmas continues, the New Year arrives, and all of this will soon be forgotten for another year.
