mea culpable

The shamrocks and Patty green have been relegated back to the decorator closet for another year. The living area decorations now are shades of pink, yellow, blue, and mauve. Crosses collected through the years hang in the front windows. A happy bunny door wreath welcomes all to our abode. The dining room tablecloth is a pastel egg design. Easter lilies shout the glad tidings from strategically placed vases. And cute little baskets of fake eggs adorn the stairs.

Well, at least it was that way when I went to bed last night. This morning was quite a different story. As I made my way from the kitchen with cuppa in hand, I noticed an egg peeping from underneath the coffee table. I didn't remember dropping one during the decorative process, but lack of memory is not an unusual occurrence around here these days, so I simply picked it up and headed for the stairs to put it back where it belongs.

The Easter baskets were empty.

You see, the little paper eggs have ribbon bows attached at one end, because they were originally designed to hang on an Easter tree. But this year there will be no grandchildren to hunt beneath the bushes, trample the hyacinth and daffodil, run squealing from place to place, cry when someone else finds more than they do, stuff their mouth with chocolate, and cry from resulting tummy aches. And so I didn't do a tree, choosing instead to place the little eggs in baskets.

I had carefully turned the eggs so the bows were down and out of sight. But the best laid plans and all that. Sometime during the night KTT had removed the eggs from their beds of cello-straw, either by mouth and bow, or paw scoop and swat. It looked like he had played soccer with them. All over the house.

The only egg he didn't move was the red one decorated with white carnations from Peking, China. And then probably only because that one is ceramic and too heavy, with no conveniently attached ribbon.

Why, you ask, didn't I hear the noise he must have made? Huge storms last night. Way too much lightning and thunder and driving rain and hail.

Perhaps that's the reason; he was just compensating his fear with activity. I've been known to do that, too; when I'm the most stressed I either bake or move the great room furniture.

Or maybe he was just being a cat, and doing what cats do.

But whatever his reason, it's really my own fault. I should have known better than to tempt him with such an easy mark.

I have not yet found all the eggs, but the ones I did find are back in the baskets. And the baskets are now grouped on the dining table instead of the stairs.

Not that the table top can't be reached with a single effortless bound from the floor, or a series of gravity-defying leaps from sofa back to buffet to table. But if he gets the eggs again, it won't be because they're just sitting there waiting for him, he'll have to work for the pleasure.