" . . . sharp-sweet scent of pine . . . "

We have a Christmas tree. I am really unduly tickled by this. Last year, Kendra and I had both just moved into this apartment. I was way more concerned with starting my new job than with the holiday season (though not so out of it as the year my cat Logan passed away on Yule) and Kendra already knew she'd be at her mother's house. This year, I thought about buying a wreath, which is one of my many solutions to liking the scent of pine but having cats. (Past solutions also include "tree in a pot" and "the Christmas bush" with ornaments twist-tied to the branches).

I came home from Phoenix at about 10PM on Wednesday. Kendra had talked about maybe getting a tree (I'd mentioned the useful cat-avoidance tips) in a pot. We have a set of shelves that function as a half-wall. They'd work well for it. So when I smelled pine, I looked for a tree there. And didn't see one. I wandered around for fully five minutes before it finally registered that she'd managed to get a tree as tall as I am set up in the corner where one of our floor lamps and the TV trays usually reside. Low to the ground, close to the walls--little chance of being climbed--and glass and plastic ornaments that can't be unraveled by little claws. And strings of beads and two colors of lights. Some of them blink.

The part of me that cringes at my parents' artificial tree feels much better now.