Letting the Cat out of the Bag, Vintage Punch print (1920s)
Ask Teenie Longfellow, and she’ll tell you: last weekend was fraught with peril.
Sure, it started out lovely. The bedding had all been washed and fluffed; the window shades were pulled; rays of sunlight flooded in; and tissue paper and twine mingled on the ground. But that’s where it began to unravel . . .
Not that she wasn’t warned, mind you.
Bring it up and she’ll suddenly avoid eye contact, faking ignorance. But it’s true. As I got up from wrapping gifts, I told her in no uncertain terms to stay away from that plastic bag. It’s not a toy, I said, as I limped off to the kitchen for glass of water (What can I say? Sitting on the floor ain’t what it used to be).
Next thing I knew there was a kerfuffle in back: a thud, a hiss, another thud followed by blur of white rustling around the kitchen table, ricocheting off the cupboard. The white fury made it mid-way through the third lap before my brain registered it as Teenie, all a dither, her head stuck in the handle of a plastic bag from Target.
Next thing you know, I’m on her heels, trying to get her stop. Round and around we went–down the hall, around the table; around the table, down the hall.
I did manage to break her free–but not before the house plant went a flyin’, potting soil falling like confetti, nails and tufts of fur littered the ground, the house in complete disarray.
When all was said and done, she immediately had to lie down. I felt something of the same.
Whole new meaning to letting the cat out of the bag, that . . .
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