Mischief maker
I mentioned in last week’s column that our family hosted a Fakesgiving a week ago. I’m happy to report that it went off without a hitch—except for one. Not surprisingly, it came courtesy of our four-year-old, Hyrum.
Hyrum is our youngest child, adored by every single one of us. If I could freeze him as a four-year-old, I would, because he is completely darling, feisty and hilarious. But he seems to be cut from a different cloth than our other kids—not necessarily personality-wise, but mischief-wise.
For example, I’ve never had to take any of my other children to the E.R. Hyrum has been twice. None of my other kids has ever flushed anything naughty down the toilet. But since Hyrum’s debut, we’ve had to call Roto-Rooter out on two occasions, both times requiring them to completely remove our toilet from the floor so they could retrieve the objects Hyrum flushed: the first time it was a loose doorknob; the second was a travel-size can of shaving cream.
Last Saturday, the day of our Fakesgiving, was understandably busy. The three little boys woke up early as usual and watched cartoons for a bit before heading outside to work on a project with their dad and older brother. I had seen Hyrum cradling our kitten shortly after the cartoons, but then as I went about my Fakesgiving preparations, I noticed that it was nowhere to be found. Usually, wherever the kitten is, our dog is sure to be also. They are the best of friends and worst of enemies. And yet that day our dog was either lying peacefully on her bed and barking incessantly at birds. No kitty wrestling at all.
“Have you seen the kitty?” I asked each child as they wandered in and out of the kitchen.
“I saw it this morning,” they would answer, “but not since then.”
I approached Mr. Troublemaker, knowing that he had been guilty in the past of stashing cats in inappropriate places, such as the cupboard under our laundry room sink or a zipped backpack.
“Hyrum, did you put the kitty somewhere?” I asked.
“I…don’t know. No. I don’t remember,” he replied. I pressed him further. “No, I didn’t put it anywhere!” he insisted. “I don’t know where it is!” His delayed, rambling answer seemed suspect, but his denial was pretty convincing, so I let it go.
The hours ticked by. I made a pie. Still no cat. I checked on the turkey in the smoker. No cat. I set the table for 15, artfully scattering fresh apples and clementines down the center amid bunches of semi-wilted greenery (Martha Stewart would have been proud). Still no cat.
We were halfway through our Fakesgiving meal when I mentioned to our guests the curious absence of the kitty and Hyrum’s likely guilt. My step-sister, Holly, is an animal lover and got right to work as a super sleuth. She leaned back in her chair and looked around for Hyrum, who was sitting on the living room floor, assembling a pipe bomb (Just kidding! But I wouldn’t put it past him).
“Hey Hyrum,” she asked, “where did you put the cat?”
Her wording must have struck just the right cord with him, because he hopped up and said, “I’ll go get it.”
We looked around at each other in disbelief before I stood up and quietly followed him down the hall and into our office. Afraid of what I might see but unable to look away, I watched Hyrum pull open a drawer, reach in, and lift out the kitty, who had apparently just been sitting in there, quiet as a mouse (pun!), for the past nine hours.
After being petted and fed and led to the litter box (!), the kitten was put back in the arms of her adoring fans, but not until we had given Hyrum a stern lecture on not shutting the kitty into enclosed spaces.
“If you think about it,” Logan mused later, “that was probably the best day of that cat’s life. She was away from Hyrum for nine whole hours.”
I guess if you’re a kitten, the love of a four-year-old is a two-edged sword. But as long as it stays away from the toilet, I think it’ll be okay.