ADELE FERGUSON: Christmas trees and cats

I DON’T put a Christmas tree up any more so I didn’t have to worry this year about hearing a cat throw up under it.

I’m also down to only one cat, Pimp (formally, The Scarlet Pimpemel, for her talent in disappearing at the arrival of strangers). When I had lots of cats, I even made it a point when we re-rugged the living room to pick a pattern we thought would be barf proof, both in color and texture. You have to think like that when you have eight cats and two dogs My tree in those days was usually 12 feet wide at the bottom and took a week to decorate. There was so much stuff hanging from its branches that to even touch it triggered a shower of ornaments to the floor. You couldn’t crawl under there to check out where the barfing cat did the deed without pruning your way in.

Only a few of the cats dared to shinny up the tree which was usually so close to being old growth I thought we’d get a spotted owl to go with it.

I yearn for the good old days when we used to go out in the woods and just cut a fir that one could actually carry by him or herself. They weren’t as solid as the fertilizer-fed ones you pay $50 for in a tree lot, so you had to anchor them to the walls once you got them decorated or risk a disaster.

THE UNITED PARCEL Service driver still looks at us funny when he delivers, on account of that memorable night some years back when, just before he arrived, we sat down, exhausted, to view the just completed, fully trimmed tree, and, as we watched, a cat scampered under and up it and it slowly tilted south and gently fell to the floor. The cat, of course, fled to hide under the nearest bed so she wouldn’t be blamed.

We sat speechless until there was a knock on the door and we opened it to the UPS man who handed over a package, looked at the tree lying there, immaculate with its decorations intact, then looked at us.

“We always decorate our tree when it’s lying down,” I said. “It’s easier that way.” He left without a word.

Since the tree fell so slowly and on the carpet, only one ornament was broken. From then on, we tied the tree to the wall on two sides with cord.

That particular cat never climbed the Christmas tree again and spent the remaining years of its life, I’m sure, trying to sell its story to Disney. One of the other cats, Maggie (formally Lady Margaret Thatcher) was given to plucking ornaments off and carrying them around until tiring of it and dropped them in the dogs’ watering dish. We have a photograph of her with a candy cane in her mouth for what purpose I don’t know unless she figured it was the only way to get anyone to take her picture.

MOST OF THE CATS generally ignored the tree, except for Argie (formally The Argentines, since she was born during that English skirmish) who crawled under the tree at night so she could not be put outside. She was a wizard at knowing when you have decided it’s time to hit the sack and will grab her out of her chair, It was impossible to sneak up on her after 9 p.m. even though she gave the appearance of deep sleep. When you got within a foot of her, she was off the chair and under the tree faster than you can say but I only wanted to pet you, Argie.

It was Argie, of course, who threw up under the tree. I hated to think what else might be under the tree. Like, spotted owl feathers maybe? Naw.

(Adele Ferguson can be reached at P.O. Box 69, Hansvile, Wa., 98340.)