This is an opinion column

I used to know the names of all my cats, and there were dozens over the years. My allergies put an end to owning cats, but one of them—Gus—was remembered at a family dinner a few days ago.

Family dinners are where three generations tell stories, the kind that get worn down from being repeated over and over. This Easter, when we gathered around my daughter’s back porch table, we remembered an Easter 40 years ago, when she and her brother rushed to dress in their Easter finery and hurry out to the car to go to church.

It wasn’t church they were excited about, it was what came after, when they could dive into their Easter baskets for chocolate treats.

They knew they would come home to almost full Easter baskets, and who knew what was in the bottom of them? Maybe there was candy they’d missed earlier that morning. Maybe there were Easter cards from grandparents with cash tucked inside or those sugary-spun eggs with spring scenes. You just held them up to your eye and looked at flowers and bunnies on somebody’s green lawn.

Each year there was an Easter egg hunt on the church lawn, with toddlers stealing eggs from each other and big children trying to help little children while grabbing some eggs for themselves. It was always fun and always pleasant.

But what happened after that wasn’t pleasant. In fact, it was ugly. When we came home from church, the children changed into play clothes and raced to their Easter baskets to see what surprises the Easter Bunny left at the bottom of their baskets.

It was a different kind of surprise than the one they got year after year. The huge chocolate eggs were melting into the fake green grass of the basket. The ears of the chocolate bunnies were covered in black fur, and our big, lazy cat—Gus—always looking for a place to nap, woke up to find his coat covered in chocolate.

Gus had been a stray that showed up on our porch and stayed the rest of his life. We were all fond of him. He slept peacefully through his days and demanded only food and petting. He was pretty and his long hair gave him a glamorous look.

He didn’t look glamorous covered in Cadbury chocolate. He licked his fur but the chocolate held on, so he leaped into the other basket and then onto the table, leaving a trail of chocolate mess behind him. We ran behind him, trying to catch this fat cat who suddenly had more energy than he’d ever had before.

Our daughter said this was disgusting and refused to look at her basket or come close to Gus for the rest of the day. Our son took a different view: maybe there were some chocolates Gus hadn’t slept on. He dug through his basket until he found some.

This was the only time I’ve ever had to wash a cat in the kitchen sink, sponging off chocolate fur. I was wise to wear rubber gloves, because cats don’t like to be bathed, as everybody knows.

Our pets teach us lessons. Gus certainly did. The next Easter we put the baskets high up on a shelf, where a cat would not bother to climb. When we brought them down, the children carried them around like expensive designer bags until all the chocolate was gone.

Beth Thames can be reached at: [email protected]