If the cat could talk,
Sammy would’ve faced 10 to 20

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

When I was pregnant with our first child, my husband and I read a book that was recommended to us: Dare to Discipline. It all sounded so wise, so practical, so "do-able." And then we actually had kids.
Funny how fast all that knowledge went right out the window. Disciplining is easy . . . on paper; it’s when you actually have to do it that it becomes difficult.
I was never fully convinced of the theological concept of original sin until our Samantha turned 3. To quote the Monkees, "I’m a believer." It happened one day while I was upstairs cleaning and was interrupted by our 5-year-old Mallory yelling "MOOOOMMMMYYYY." I ran to the bottom of the steps, only to be confronted by Sammy holding Chancellor, one of our two recently acquired kittens.
Chance is a white cat with large black markings. In the crook of Sammy’s left arm lay poor little Chancy with a look of terror in his heavily dilated pupils, probably because in her right hand Sammy held a pair of children’s scissors. And covering her feet were tufts of black and white fur.
"Sammy, sweetie, did you cut Chancy’s fur?"
She looked up at me with those beautiful, sparkling, saucer-shaped hazel eyes and those full rosy cheeks.
"No."
"Honey, are you sure you didn’t cut Chancy’s fur, maybe just a little bit?"
"No."
"Sweetie, you’re holding the kitten, a pair of scissors and your feet are covered in fur. Are you absolutely positive you didn’t give Chancy a haircut?"
"No."
I’ve watched too many episodes of Law & Order to feel good about convicting someone based on circumstantial evidence alone. And besides, how could this little angelic face look me right in the eye and tell a bold-faced lie? But feeling that I had stumbled upon a crime scene that would have led even L&O’s late, great Jerry Orbach to easily conclude who the guilty party was, I went ahead and convicted her.
Sammy spent the rest of that afternoon sitting on the bottom step while mommy patiently waited for a confession and an apology. She’s 16 now. I’m still waiting.
The following year, Samantha started preschool. This coincided with the time when George Clooney was reaching superstardom as the benevolent pediatrician Dr. Doug Ross on the television series ER. George started that new season with a new haircut that men all over the country copied by cropping their locks razor short.
Unknown to us, Sammy must have caught the season premiere, for she too decided to go with the new George Clooney "do." Heralded downstairs yet again by the familiar cry of "MOOOOMMMMYYYY," I tentatively rushed down wondering what awaited me.
It was Sammy again. Scissors in hand. Only this time the floor was covered with her hair. Chancellor had found a few good hiding places and Mallory knew to keep her distance from her sister, leaving Sam with no option but to cut her own hair.
"Sammy, sweetie, did you cut your hair?"
She looked up at me with those beautiful, sparkling, saucer-shaped hazel eyes and those full rosy cheeks.
"No."
"Honey, are you sure you didn’t cut your hair, maybe just a little bit?"
"No."
"Sweetie, you’re holding scissors, the floor is covered with hair and you look like George Clooney. Are you absolutely positive you didn’t give yourself a haircut?"
"No."
I guess you know Sam spent the rest of that afternoon on the well-worn bottom step. And yes, I’m still waiting for a confession and an apology. I’ve also taken to hiding the scissors.
As she grew into her elementary, junior high and now high school years, we always have known exactly when she gets home and where to find her. She very thoughtfully leaves a trail for us to follow. It begins at the front door — left wide open — with her backpack thrown on the floor in the middle of the entryway. Her left shoe is by the computer desk; the right shoe is at the bottom of the stairs. There are crumbs on the countertop, evidence of an after-school snack, and school papers have been strewn throughout the upstairs hallway.
"Hi sweetie," I say as I near the end of the trail, which leads directly to her bedroom door. "I missed you today, oh, and is that your stuff all over the place?"
"No."
Some things never change. At least it wasn’t hair. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@verizon.net