My yuletide memories from childhood are few but oh-so-vivid. I remember waking up early in the stillness of Christmas morning, wondering if Santa really had visited. Was he too good to be true? Within minutes, my sister and I sprinted down the back stairs like the Grinch was chasing us. Unfortunately she practically sprained her ankle turning the last dark corner. Managing to limp over to the tree, she exclaimed with glee, “What a wonderful Habitrail! Too bad there aren’t any gerbils!”

My mother popped her head out of the kitchen, asking, “Are you sure there aren’t some gerbils in there?” She had insider information, you see. As a matter of fact, though, there weren’t any gerbils inside, at least not anymore. Apparently Santa didn’t hook the cage up right, and they had made the great escape in the middle of the night. Good for them – they were having fun running throughout the walls of our house forevermore.

For the record, that is what I believed with all my heart for the past 40 years until two weeks ago. That’s when I sent my mother a draft of this essay. Her reply was devastating: “The gerbils didn’t escape into the walls. The cat attacked the cage during the night and had himself a yummy meal.” She continued, “I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT. THEY WERE THERE WHEN WE WENT TO BED!!!”

The little-girl-in-me suggested to her that maybe the cute little gerbils really did get away. Mom muttered, “Oh no, there were little tufts of fur all over the place. I can’t believe you kids didn’t notice.”

After learning this deep, dark family secret, I immediately texted my sister, “Did you know the gerbils really got eaten by the cat?”

“Yup.”

Fa la la! I need therapy.

Libby McNamee is a writer, lawyer and mommy, but not in that order. She doesn’t have gerbils, but she does have a cat and fish. So far the cat has been happy with fish-flavored kitty treats.