Somehow that doesn't sound quite right, but it is our reality this year. Each day, the trees look more bedraggled: The beaded garland and the lights dangle forlornly. I have given up putting them back in place, because in an instant, they're back on the floor. There are no tree ornaments in sight, other than the four paper cones I made in desperation a couple of weeks ago. Until this year, I'd never associated the word "destruction" with Christmas.
Sunday, I caught the culprit in action. Peeking around the corner, I observed her technique. Starting at the inside of the tree, she stood against the metal "trunk" and began pulling off the rings of garland that cover it, flinging them across the room with a jerk of her head. Then, the little darling began what could only be called "branch diving": jumping up and flopping onto some of the larger branches, my once-lovely Martha Stewart beaded garland strung across her open mouth like a bridle. Her head popped out at random between the branches.
For a moment, I watched in horror, then quickly regained my wits, not to get the cat out of the tree, mind you, but to get the camera.
Destruction? Who cares? This, my friends, was a scrapbook page in the making.