Thoughts

Christmas Day passed very quietly, marked by a slight eyebrow raiser at breakfast and a minor worry that fortunately resolved before transitioning to panic…

The past couple of days have been beautifully decorated with anew application of light snow and changing light.

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Breakfast time is when I do my daily brain exercises with all those puzzles. One of the geography quizzes asks you to name a country, based on the outline displayed.

“Give me something I recognise!” I murmured, “like Italy.”

Clicking on the app, I was somewhat surprised to see the familiar boot shape of the Italian peninsula. Of the 197 possibilities, it was yesterday’s choice.

Well, I did say slight eyebrow raiser.

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Today I discovered another geography quiz which involves determining a capital city of the day, which you have to arrive at by process of elimination.

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Yesterday afternoon the clouds and light had me going in and out several times, which later on became the cause of developing concern: Had Little Man shot past me?

Because, when we dished out supper a couple of hours later, he was nowhere to be found. He is keen on supper, so this was unusual. We looked in every room, under beds, in boxes and cubbyholes. No Little Man.

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We know better than to panic, because this is what cats do. They find unknown hiding places to secrete themselves, then sit there laughing at your increasingly anxious calls.

Then two thoughts come to mind (besides don’t panic):

Your cat is lying somewhere in extremis.

Your cat somehow got out.

In Little Man’s case, his getting out is a problem because the lad goes exploring and although he returns, he has fear of the door and must be persuaded through it, which is complicated.

Additionally, the temperature had dropped to well below freezing and it was now dark.

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Having been through this innumerable times, we remained (more or less) calm and had our own supper. After which we sprang up and searched again.

Ever since I first lived with animals, it has been my practice when opening doors, to do so cautiously, raising my foot against the possibility of a break-out, prepared to lunge at any fleeing pet. I exit and re-enter swiftly and always look down, out of habit.

But there’s always the chance of a moment’s distraction. Had he got past me? Could he have escaped when Grant went out? I wasn’t going to ask, but I began to get anxious.

Twice already, I’d checked my bedroom. I’d not looked in the cupboard because I remembered having opened it briefly to hang something up and preventing Lily from climbing inside. No way could Little Man be in there, however…I rolled the door open and out he shot, with a saucy smile.

He’d been curled up having a nice long nap.

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A temporarily missing pussycat does not constitute drama, as even I will acknowledge. The closest I came to drama at Christmas was when my aunt was suddenly hospitalised once on Christmas Eve. It was frightening, but she was discharged a couple of days later.

Two of my friends lost parents on Christmas Day. We all eventually have such anniversaries, some very much more poignant than others. We tend to acknowledge them quietly, the sting diminishing gradually over the years, but to have these reminders fall on Christmas Day is truly unfortunate, the pairing of joy and sadness so cruel. It’s one of the reasons I dislike the holidays, because I think the festivities and fun exacerbate the pain for anyone who is newly grieving, or has a sad anniversary to acknowledge.

In the dark days of my depression, nothing upset me more than the sound of laughter. It wasn’t that I wanted those happy people not to laugh and have fun. I am not that shallow. It was just that the sound of their laughter reminded me of how unhappy I was, and knowing that I must somehow plaster a smile on my face and pretend that everything was fine.

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Additionally, I was only too well aware that by comparison, I had little to be unhappy about and that around the world so many were really suffering.

At Christmas especially, those are the people I think about.

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