Benedict’s Christmas Gift
Good festive day to one and all! I promised to enlighten you with an escapade of such drama and intrigue, it would make you gag on your morning’s ham and eggs and as I am a man of my word and honour, I hitherto present you with my musings on the prickly topic of Christmas trees and the dangers of their proximity to household pets. Now where to begin? It is an age old tradition and a convention highly thought of, to start at the beginning and who am I to quibble with the great storytellers of old? So.....Once upon a time there was a cat called Jasper.
Hang on, I am getting ahead of myself here. Firstly I must mention that this does have direct relevance to the esteemed institution that publishes these small nuggets of my memoirs and that I am currently writing this article from the warmth of a barber chair in Pall Mall Barbers, with views of our newly erected Christmas tree, which stands at a safe yet comfortable distance from the hairdryers.
So once again I return to the beginning. Once upon a time there was a cat named Jasper. To look at him you would not instantly think of him as a noble feline. For some kittens he was a monster of such terrible ferocity, the mere mention of his name by their mother would send her litter scurrying off to bed. He was a huge brute of a cat, black as night, with missing teeth, gnarled ears and one gleaming accusing eye (as the unfortunate feline sported a cataract in the other).
For Jasper the season of Christmas was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it brought ham and eggs, turkey giblets and left over trimmings galore. On the other hand it brought an extended family; a cacophony of aunts, snotty toddlers and startling Christmas decorations. I can imagine you nodding your heads vigorously at the thought of multiple aunts, and snotty toddlers but, you say, what could possibly be the problem with a festive swag across the mantle, not to mention the yuletide focal point in any house – the Christmas Tree? Now I believe I mentioned that the rogue Jasper suffered from the eye condition all too common in aged pets and relatives, cataracts. Not only did this give Jasper the look of a buccaneer of the high seas, but it also impaired the brute’s perspective.
Now I was a shaveling of fifteen years old and my father had decided that I was to be taken for my first wet shave at our family’s usual haunt, Pall Mall Barbers. Naturally I was beside myself with excitement and this feeling of Christmas cheer spread throughout the household to one and all – well everyone apart from Jasper, who on hearing the news, glared with his one good eye, flicked his tail twice, as much as to say, “call those whiskers you kitten me lad, leave me to sleep.” And with that he curled up again and did his best to ignore the general hubbub of the house as the tradesmen brought in a whopping 12 foot tree.
So my father and I escaped the flurry of ladies’ dresses as they bobbed and weaved around the poor delivery boy, struggling to erect our most glorious tree, and we headed into town like all good gentlemen do, for a trim and shave. On our arrival, we were welcomed by all, as my father was extremely popular and a good tipper. Many there, whom he knew from his club in St. James’s, were also hiding away from the Christmas preparation carnage. All his closest friends were there; Dingle, Binkie, Lunchbox and of course Baxter his oldest and closest of friends. Though Baxter did not seem as full of the happy Christmas cheer as his compatriots. As I was lost amongst my first hot towels, Baxter explained his dilemma to all of us men in the shop. It so transpired that Baxter owned an Irish Wolf Hound who, astonishingly, was also called Jasper. Now Jasper the Hound was still only a puppy, though being of the family of Irish Wolf Hound, he was already up to my hip bone when standing on all fours (he was, during the telling of this tale in the shop, kipping under Baxter’s barber chair). Jasper the Hound was the love of Baxter’s life, much to the jealousy of his wife Sylvia and I’m sure it was her wounded pride that made her so stubborn in her course of action regarding her Aunt Lilly’s phobia of canine teeth and fur. Baxter’s wife had demanded that Jasper the Hound’s life be terminated prior to the arrival of the much loathed Aunt Lilly. This Baxter rightly declared was a nonsensical solution to the problem, to which his wife gave him a choice, “Either the dog departs this world or Christmas is cancelled.” On being given this ultimatum, Baxter had fled with Jasper and in searching for respite and a kindly audience, arrived unsurprisingly at good old Pall Mall Barbers. All the men within the respectable establishment shook their heads with dismay at the hideous situation faced by Baxter, but behind their sympathy you could see they felt that Baxter should never have let the situation get so far out of hand. Never should a woman be allowed to get between man and his most beloved of friends – his dog. With utmost pride I watched my father step up and do the honourable thing and declare that his house would be a safe haven for the dog over the Christmas period or at least until the departure of the most infamous of aunts and, with much cheering and back slapping, the arrangements were made and Baxter, minus Jasper the Irish Wolf Hound, could return home with a metaphorical skip in his step!
Presently we too returned to our abode but with a curious, yet happy, giant puppy in tow. On entering the house we were greeted by beautiful Christmas music which was being pumped out of the gramophone in the hall and the glow of Christmas candles festively illuminating the ground floor from the tree erected in the drawing room. It was a wondrous sight to all that beheld it, no more so than young Jasper the Irish Wolf Hound, who, on seeing his first Christmas tree, felt the sudden and urgent desire to go have a sniff. In one bound he broke from my grip and galloped to investigate. Unfortunately for both Jasper the Dog and Jasper the cat, the latter just so happened to be sleeping in the bay window adjacent to the twelve foot fir which had so excited the dog. As Jasper the Hound raced past, Jasper the cat was ripped from his dreams of kippers and was horrified to see what he mistakenly thought, with his impaired eyesight, was a small yappy canine invading his personal abode and desecrating the tree in the corner. For the cat there was but one course of action and that was to take the young pup in claw and teach him a lesson he would never forget. We innocent bystanders could only watch in horror, as Jasper the cat yowled with indignation, puffed out his fur and leaped from his elevated position onto the back of the galumphing hound dog.
This is possibly the only time I have felt sorry for the cat, as the realisation dawned in his one eye that what he had dug his claws into was not the back of a small yapping pup, but the muscular shoulders of what might just as well have been a full grown grizzly bear. For Jasper the Hound it was fun and frolics: the game was afoot and the playing field was the Christmas tree. Within seconds one Jasper was at the top of the tree, the other baying at the foot. The next second the festive decorations were raining down all around as both Jaspers were astonishingly perched at the top of a dangerously swaying fir.
“Jasper”, I called repeatedly to the one-eyed cat. “Jasper” my father thundered to the tree-climbing wolf-hound.
This most pagan of dances and cacophany of Jaspers continued briefly until, with an almighty crash, the tree came down, scattering presents, decorations and pets in all directions. The situation, I won’t lie to you, was not good. It was made all the worse when into the room, oblivious to the catastrophe that had just befallen the tree, came my mother, accompanied by her life- long friend, Baxter’s wife Sylvia with her aunt, one Aunt Lilly. In the moment it took the three women to take in the Christmas horror, Jasper the cat sought safe purchase and felt this would be best accomplished if he was securely aboard Aunt Lilly’s head, which is where he proceeded to take himself. Close behind Jasper the Cat was Jasper the Hound who felt that the best way to get to Jasper the Cat, his new found and best playmate, was to climb aboard the convenient human known to her friends’ as Aunt Lilly.
Two hours and half a bottle of brandy later, Aunt Lilly was still clearly shaken. Some of the colour had returned to her cheeks, but this was probably the effect of strong spirits. The tree, now somewhat threadbare, was once again erect, though not so cheerful and both Jasper the Cat and Jasper the Irish Wolf Hound had been banished to the courtyard to contemplate their crimes. Needless to say Aunt Lilly never again crossed the threshold of our humble abode, nor for that matter did she again visit the house of Baxter. And for that, all of us at Pall Mall Barbers gave a great cheer. It was decided early in the following New Year that Jasper the Wolf Hound should move in with us, as after his departure he could not rid himself of a profound melancholy. After many weeks of whining and pacing, it was realised that the dog was missing his play chum Jasper the Cat. And so dog and cat were brought together to live out their long and happy (in the case of the dog) lives. And here I must leave you as I fear that Jasper the cat’s great grand son is once again being harassed by the great great grand son of Jasper the Irish Wolf Hound.
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Benedict Brookley-Stone
