Cool Cats

I never liked the Cheshire cat. I still don’t. He is the stuff of nightmares as far as I am concerned. The trickster who has no endearing qualities, because whatever appears endearing is still suspect.

I like straight forward people. I prefer to insulted rather than fooled. My feelings can never be hurt so much as when I hear a disingenuous compliment. I don’t mind kindness, but pretending kindness in order to be sarcastic, is to me the worst kind of behavior.

The first time I was aware that people could appear to be one thing and really be another was well before I was five years old. My mother was tired of me misbehaving and informed me that Santa Claus was watching everything I did. I responded with some form of, “I don’t think so, I don’t see him around here.” To which she replied, “You don’t know who I am. I could be Santa right now and you’d only think it was me.” And she smiled. What a terrifying thought that was! The person I depended upon for nearly everything was not really who I thought she was. For the rest of my life those comments would cause nightmares.

And that grin? My mother’s youngest brother, my uncle, was about nine years older than I was. He had that wide, cheesy grin that always appeared just about the time he was going to do something kind of mean, or sneaky and I learned to dread it. Looking back, I suspect he was really just trying to look cool, or smart, but to me, it was scary.

Cheshire cat people with their sarcastic grins, fading in and out of the darkness of the unknown still leave me cold, but a friend commented that these could just be nervous grins, reactions to the discomfort these cats are feeling themselves. I’d never thought of that. Next time I’ll pay more attention.