Whatever happens in Thailand stays in Thailand. Especially if you happen to cheat on your woman there.

Christmas balls, that is. Every morning when I come downstairs on my way to work, I see that my living room floor is littered with Christmas ornaments, specifically the little silver and gold and blue and red balls that I like to hang from the tree. It was like a strong breeze came in during the night and shook the ornaments free. But I know better. I’ve caught Charlie in the act — smacking a ball like a punching bag until it drops crabapple style from the tree and rolls across the floor. He stares at his victory for a few moments before moving on to the next ball that “mocks him” (his words, not mine) or until I scold him.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve sprayed the tree with that anti-cat stuff, but to no avail. I’ve tried hanging the balls higher, but he only climbs up the center of the tree, reaches over and knocks them down. I’ve threatened him with deportation to China, but Charlie only scoffs at me while sipping his scotch and eyeing me curiously through the smoky haze of his Viceroy. “I can’t be stopped, you schmuck.”

“Stop hanging balls on the tree,” you say? Yes, that would be the simple solution. But then that would mean he wins. Defeated by a feline? I don’t think so. So, if you have any good solutions to keeping my balls intact, please let me know.