The dogs that stole Christmas – Washington Blade
I was chatting with a friend the other day about the Christmas presents she got for her dog, Dot, and where she was hiding them so Dot couldn’t find them until they were wrapped and placed under the tree. We spoke quietly so Dot couldn’t hear us.
During our conversation, I remarked on the items I purchased this year for my six-pack of Miniature Schnauzers: an assortment of festive, red and green bow ties and bandannas, to highlight the rainbow of new collars I had ordered for each pup – red, pink, purple and lime green for the girls and turquoise and orange for the boys.
“Is that it?” she asked. “Let me ask you: How did you like getting clothes for Christmas when you were a kid?” I admitted that socks and underwear were never my favorites, but if you consider a collar as pet jewelry, it sounds like a more elegant gift. Besides, playing with dog toys doesn’t hold much interest at my house and with rescues, there’s usually some residual food aggression, so treats are only distributed when I am there to monitor their consumption.
I hung up the phone feeling like Scrooge, as if Santa Paws wouldn’t be coming down the chimney this year. This was probably a good thing, though, since I had just had the chimney inspected in November and had found that the damper still wouldn’t stay open. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke wafting through my living room from the fireplace fiasco of 2019.
It’s a funny thing about pets. When you talk to them, they often react as if they a) understand what you are saying, b) are interested in the subject matter, and c) want to respond. “Good boy” is always a popular topic, as is “suppertime.” The repeated nudge of a wet nose on my arm means, “tell me a story,” so, for them and for you, I offer you the tale of The Dogs That Stole Christmas.
‘Twas the weekend of Christmas (so it says in the fable) and I’d just gotten up from the settlement table. With documents signed and notarized too, it was time to step out for a nosh and a brew, so I strolled to the neighborhood bar down the street to order some wings and a Glenlivet neat.
While I sipped on my drink and it warmed up my tummy, I looked at the menu for something else yummy. As I pondered which tidbit I should order next, I heard my phone buzz and I noticed a text. “Come back to the house and please hurry,” it stated, yet no more was written about what awaited.
I sprang from my seat, paid the bill and departed, and off to my home on the hillside, I darted. To the east of the river I flew like a flash. I parked and went in, as I heard a loud crash. When I looked all around there appeared such a torrent, like a scene that resembled a search with a warrant.
The tree was in shambles and yet there was more: the presents were opened and strewn on the floor. The branches were broken, the ornaments shattered, the stockings that hung by the chimney were tattered. No elf on a shelf could be found in its place and nor was the wreath I had hung in its space.
I scowled at my dogs and I called them by name to try to determine just who was to blame. “Now Sasha, Fiona and Maxwell and Cory, someone enlighten me. Tell me the story. Out with the truth. I am totally vexed. Did Cammie or Jelly Bean learn how to text?”
“And why would you do this to our lovely house? Were you playing a game? Were you chasing a mouse? Did I leave you too long or did you get bored? Were you hungry or thirsty, or feeling ignored?”
Their innocent faces gave nary a clue, ‘til I noticed some soot at the base of the flue. And there were the prints of a four-legged critter and no sign at all of my hired dog sitter. “Aha,” I exclaimed as I deduced the cause. Why, the reprobate must have been Santa Paws!
They nodded assent as they hung their wee heads, before settling into their crates and their beds. I told them good night with a pat and a hug, then discovered that someone had peed on the rug.
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, and Happy Kwanzaa from my family to yours.
Valerie M. Blake is a licensed associate broker in D.C., Maryland, and Virginia with RLAH Real Estate/@properties. Call or text her at 202-246-8602, email her via DCHomeQuest.com, or follow her on Facebook at TheRealst8ofAffairs.