When I was a kid we always had a fake Christmas tree, mainly because of my parents’ concern that a real tree might catch fire. Our tree was lovely but it looked the same every year and I vowed that when I grew up I would only have real trees.
I recalled my vow last week as my partner and I were fighting with a tree that looked perfect on the lot but that dwarfed our living room. “It’s too big for the stand,” my partner said, trying to hold the tree upright. “It’s way too tall.”
“You say that every year,” I reminded him through clenched teeth. I was on my belly tightening the screws in the stand; I was considerably hindered by the puppy, who was running around the tree, and the kitten, who was climbing up the trunk.
We eventually got the tree upright and secure, but as we took a step back to admire it the puppy lunged at the kitten, who by now was perched at the very top of the tree. “Timber!” I shouted as we both jumped forward to catch the tree.
As we shooed the animals onto the back porch and righted the tree I reminded my partner that this was our 20th Christmas together. “Twenty years?” he said. “Aren’t I eligible for parole for good behavior?” I let that comment slide mainly because I was remembering our first Christmas tree in our new house so many years ago when another batch of kittens brought the tree down with such regularity that in desperation we wired the tree to the drapery rod. This did not stabilize the tree in the least — it just ensured that the next time the tree fell it took the drapes and rod with it.
My partner reminded me that the next year we resulted to stealth to keep the cats out of the tree, and selected a gorgeous blue spruce with needles so sharp we called it the Porcupine Tree. Our reasoning was that the sharp needles would keep the cats away but we were wrong: They did not even remotely slow the cats down, but my partner and I were both bloody messes as we tried to decorate it.
We both had fond memories of the Thirsty Tree, which consumed water faster than we could refill the reservoir, yet still always looked dry. That was the year we had just brought home Eleanor, a senior rescue Lab who, I subsequently discovered, loved to shimmy on her belly under the tree so she could drink the water in the tree stand.
My partner reminded me of the Bird Tree, which we decorated with dozens of feathery fake birds which Eleanor ate with no apparent ill-effects. Then I recalled the Flower Tree, which we were ill-advised to decorate with live flowers, which the cats promptly ate and then, cat-like,promptly threw right back up.
Several years ago we had the Charlie Brown Tree which was already shedding needles when we put it in the stand: Whenever our sedate cats walked by or the elderly dog wagged her tail we were serenaded by the silvery tinkle of millions of needles falling to the floor. And then I sighed as I recalled that our tree last year was beautiful, mainly because our pets, so old and sick, ignored it completely.
Just then my younger brother called. He puts up a gorgeous fake tree every year and his well-behaved dog poses for pictures beneath it. When I told him our tree was too tall and the stand was too small and the animals would not leave it alone he asked why we didn’t just get an artificial tree and be done with it. “My tree opens like an umbrella,” he said smugly, “and the lights are already on it!”
“I guess we’re traditionalists,” I said absently and told him I had to go. I just heard a loud hiss followed by frenzied barking and what sounded like our 20th Christmas tree hitting the floor.