In the Cirque du Smith, it's the role of my wife and youngest daughter to come up with wacky ideas, like raising chickens or having multiple colors added to hair (well, actually that was my youngest daughter, not my wife) or Nerf guns as Christmas presents (again, my daughter, not my wife ... hey, is there a trend here?) or stuff like that.
My oldest son's role is to tell us how bad whatever the idea my wife and/or youngest daughter have suggested is. My youngest son's role is to read his phone and try to ignore all of us, and my oldest daughter and my son-in-law are responsible for chasing their daughter around. Because, well, someone has to, so it might as well be the parents.
My role is to serve as the calm voice of reason. At least to the degree I'm calm and reasonable. Mostly, it's to get a column out of whatever calamity Lucy and Ethel have come up with. Which, frankly, isn't that hard to do. And explains the basic story line of this week's offering.
We got a cat.
OK, deep background here. We've had cats before. Several, in fact (Not at the same time. That's your slightly odd Aunt Eugenia). So, we know what all is involved, and when previous editions of Cats of the Smiths push on into the feline end zone, we typically shed a tear and vow never to do that again.
And we almost believe it.
All I know is, one morning, the Co-Conspirators were saying how neat it would be to have a cat again. To which I commented that, well, of all the pets we've had, cats required the least amount of maintenance.
If you can construe that as a ringing endorsement of acquiring another cat, it might be time to have either a little less rosé in your glass or a little less rose color in your glasses. Or both. To my way of thinking, what I said was on par with commenting that, of all the things you can be terribly sick with, at least the stomach flu helps you lose weight.
Apparently you can't leave any door even slightly ajar around here or someone will burst through it with a cat (or, a cat will simply burst through it, but more on that later). Which explains why I came home from a feline-free day at the office to determine such was no longer the case at home.
I discovered this when I walked into my laundry room and discovered a pair of eyes attached to an orange-ish kitten staring back at me. If size roles were reversed, I'd have been dinner. As it was, I was ... surprised. And I commented. Calmly and reasonably.
Just a note here: Recent studies have indicated people who curse are more intelligent and cursing actually aids morale. If that's the case, I'm a super genius and we should be positively giddy around here until about March. So, family, you're welcome.
I will say this about cats -- they're devious. They start off with the "cute little helpless kitten cowering behind the laundry detergent bottles" routine, and then, after we've gone out and acquired food dishes and cat toys and litter boxes and "litter" and liners, and are obviously invested in the relationship, they turn into what they actually are. Which is, basically, wolverines set on tearing up your house.
Exhibit A: The as-yet-unnamed (options swing from "Peanut Butter,"courtesy of my granddaughter, to "Kierk" which is short for Kierkegaard, as in the philosopher who suggested that which does not kill us makes us stronger, courtesy of the Lovely Mrs. Smith, to a morale- and intelligence-boosting phrase or two from me when the cat climbs onto the bottom rung of a stepstool just as I'm climbing down) kitten is, as I write, staring at me over the top of the computer monitor when not acting like the computer phrase "mouse" is literally true.
People tell me this sort of spastic behavior is a sign the kitten is now officially comfortable with its new home. Not sure how tearing across a floor for no apparent reason and leaping onto the back of a sofa before climbing up on some unsuspecting person's head just as the Razorbacks are about to score is an indication of anything except a cat that just ate few coffee beans that had fallen under a cabinet. But there it is.
I'm trying to remain philosophical (as in, being stronger for not being killed when I tripped over the cat, which has taken to running in and out from in front of my feet while I walk). At least Bonnie and Clyde -- or in this case, Bonnie and Bonnie -- didn't make good on their suggestion we get one of those tiny potbellied pigs.
And my oldest son has even offered up the assessment that, of all our bad ideas, a cat is at least not the absolute worst. Not exactly book jacket material, but we'll take it.
Einstein once suggested that the very definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. My guess is Einstein had cats.
Commentary on 01/08/2016