Pre-match Staredown
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Only one thing was certain: Dad, eager to avoid both the dreadful thwack of Mom’s volleyball spikes against his back and a lifetime sentence of sleeping on the living room couch, would raise his hand in cowardly support of the honcho. This meant that I had to secure all my siblings’ votes. The rules dictated that in a 3-3 tie, the older member—Mom in this case—would win.
It was going to be an uphill battle, but with resolve in my steps, I went from room to room and asked everyone to gather in the living room. My family members filtered in one by one, their sleepiness evident, some clutching their morning mugs of tea. When they had all settled down, without delay I shared the tale of my early morning discovery of the little kitten.
Their reactions varied from mild surprise to outright shock, the balance tipping noticeably toward the latter, with one nearly spilling her tea on the floor. My two younger sisters, squarely in the “shock” camp, peppered me with an excited flurry of questions. The younger one even inquired if she might be allowed to go into my room and take a look at the kitty.
After calming everyone down, I made my intentions clear: I want to make the kitten the seventh member of our close-knit tribe. This time, the look of shock was conspicuous on everyone’s face. I then announced that, because of Mom’s opposition, there would be a family vote to determine the little furball’s fate, emphasizing to my family members that the poor thing’s future hinged on our collective decision.
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I stole a quick glance at the honcho after I’d finished speaking. Her face was as calm as the serene surface of a moonlit lake, reflecting her conviction that—judging by the reactions of the family members—everyone shared her belief that I had brought home a harbinger of doom destined to ruin our household.
Mom suggested we pause the proceedings while she and Dad prepared breakfast and packed snacks for the day’s family trip, then reconvene in the living room for the decisive vote once we’d polished off our morning meal. I signaled my agreement with a simple nod.
Up to that point, I had succeeded in putting on a calm facade in front of my family’s prying eyes, but Mom’s confident demeanor was beginning to chip away at my composed veneer. The honcho, ever the keen observer, probably detected the growing trepidation in my eyes. Nevertheless, I stood firm, refusing to flinch in the pre-match staredown. Mom glared at me one last time before leaving the living room. The battle to save my tiny orphaned kitten had officially begun.