The real world in a box of decorations

I am sitting here in a morose mood, wondering why things are the way they are in a world that seems to be spinning in reverse, when suddenly there is a loud crash from the other room, followed by a yowl of surprise and a howl of pain.

These are not unfamiliar sounds in a household that combines humans and domestic animals in a post-Christmas mode. I say post-Christmas because, even though it is February, we are just now getting around to putting away the seasonal decorations.

Well, actually, I am not a part of it, being isolated in a small room off the hall where I manage to avoid any kind of real work by writing. Cinelli is stowing the bells and ornaments while I, as you can clearly see, am engaged in higher pursuits.

She has various names for the seemingly unfair division of labor that separates toil from whimsical quests, but this is no time to be getting into that in the face of the yowls and howls from beyond. I hear Cinelli’s soothing voice after the outburst and figure that everything is more or less OK, so I am back to writing as she enters my domain. I don’t turn around, but I can visualize her standing in the doorway, hands on hips, scowling. I concentrate hard on what I am writing as though it is a sequel to “The Brothers Karamazov,” knowing that she is about to say, “Didn’t you hear all that racket?” -- which she actually does say.

I look up, pretending to be startled by her presence and say, “What racket?”

It is enough for me to know that she is all right, but not enough for her to be satisfied with that. What happened, she explains, is that she was organizing the Christmas decorations when a heavy box of outdoor lights and other festive items crashed to the floor.

This caused her to step quickly backward just as the dog, Sophie, more eager than intellectual, rushed over to see what was going on; perhaps something edible had spilled and she could lick the floor. The dog’s paw arrived right under the space where Cinelli’s foot was about to come down and she stepped on it. Sophie yowled, more in shock than pain, unaccustomed to being trod upon by the lady of the house.

What happened next was an impressive display of loyalty. Our black cat, Ernie the Assassin, thinking that Sophie was attacking Cinelli and not really fond of the dog anyhow, flew across the room, claws extended, teeth bared and landed squarely on Sophie’s back, causing her to follow her yowl with a howl, this time of real pain.

“You should have seen it,” Cinelli says. “Ernie must have thought the dog was after me and rushed in to stop her. Sophie had to do flips to get him off her back.”

In his short stay with us, Ernie, a cat our daughter Cindy rescued from the hard streets of Sacramento, has managed to do in mice, rats and birds but has never sought bigger game. Sophie was his first.

“Someday,” I say, “he may be out there chasing elephants and rhinos across the Masai Mara.”

Cinelli turns in exasperation. “Do you ever have a sane thought in your head?”

“It’s not my fault I have a bad heart,” I say.

I have just applied an argument ploy called Domestic Guilt Exchange in which a husband uses a wife’s natural feelings of self-doubt to win a point. In this case, I am thinking that she is angry because I am unable to help her on account of my recent heart surgery but feels guilty because she thinks I should.

She fires back with, “If it isn’t your bad heart, it’s your bad back, and if it isn’t your bad back, it’s your bad stomach. It appears to me, Elmer, that it may just be your whole bad attitude.”

“OK,” I say, rising, “I’ll get out there and wrestle large crates around, although it may mean my life, and you can amuse yourself by crushing the dog’s feet.”

I limp off to the other room as though I am walking to a death chamber and observe that the dog is cowering in one corner while Ernie sits in another glaring at her, the way Max Schmeling tried to psych out Joe Louis back in the days of championship boxing.

“Just ignore them,” Cinelli says, “while they enjoy a nervous truce.”

“They look OK to me,” I say. “The Jews and the Palestinians display more hostility.”

I start to lift a box, and it slips from my hands, dumping strings of plastic pine needles and tiny Nativity figures all over the floor. It was an accident, I swear. Baby Jesus rolls into a corner. One of the Magi suffers an injured arm. The dog cowers deeper into himself, expecting the worst. The cat is tense but doesn’t move.

“Maybe,” Cinelli says, sighing, “you should just go back to creating fantasies in the air and leave the real world to me.”

So here I am again, staring at the cloud-fluffed Magritte-blue sky, wondering why things are the way they are and hoping that tomorrow they’ll be a little quieter, but I doubt it.

Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez @latimes.com.