A Dog is for Christmas

A DOG IS FOR CHRISTMAS

There is no post today but canines are pre-programmed to bark viciously at the letter box at unearthly hours in the morning so the family, as always , are rudely blasted from sleep before they are ready. I crawl reluctantly from my warm bed nursing a hangover and attempt to force a smile.

         Ablutions completed and seasonal salutations all round (Humbug!), my first task this Christmas morning is to feed the birds. I empty the bag of goodies onto the bird table and turn to walk back to the house. I notice several piles of doggy dirt on the lawn. What better way to start Christmas day than with a bit of shovelling I muse. That way, surely, things can only get better.

         Hands thoroughly washed, I begin the preparations for dinner. This year I have excelled myself by preparing home made pate for starters as opposed to opening a can of soup. The pate is arranged artistically on seven plates around the table, complete with neat little side salads. Everything is under control so we decide to open our presents.

         Our first Christmas with pooch taught us not to put his presents under the tree along with the rest. That particular Christmas morning we arose to find the floor covered in scraps of wrapping paper and a very overstuffed hound. These days we are wiser and keep his stocking hidden from sight until the last moment. Tail wagging furiously, tongue lolling, eyes gleaming; he sets about opening his gifts. This takes approximately thirty seconds after which he gives us that “Is that all?” look and saunters away leaving paper, squeaky toys and chews scattered all over the lounge floor. The rest of the family open their gifts with more decorum and appreciation.

         I return to the kitchen to continue preparations only to find seven plates of neat little side salad minus pate and a very replete looking dog licking his chops. “God bless Mr. Heinz,” I mutter, quickly emptying cans of soup into a saucepan.

         Dinner is scheduled for precisely one o clock, as always, as my dear brother-in-law has an appointment with the golf course as soon as he can escape. He arrives on the dot, leaving his eighty-eight year old mother to find her own way up the slippery path unaided. The pooch goes into a frenzy; he cannot for some reason abide the man and makes this quite apparent. Actually, I quite empathise with the dog but am in no position to disappear under the table and snarl. My fixed grin is precariously slipping as I serve the dinner. My brother-in-law says he doesn’t want stuffing. The dog and I would disagree. He leaves to play his solitary round whilst swallowing the last spoonful of his pudding. We probably won’t see him for another year; thank God for small mercies.

         After dinner I escape with the dog for a planned long walk in the countryside in order to miss Her Majesty pontificating from the Palace. Peace and solitude at last; I have looked forward to it for days. We set off; the dog walks a hundred yards, poops (I scoop) then turns about. Paws firmly fixed he refuses to budge another inch. I return to the house just in time for the royal speech; maybe pooch has heard a rumour that the corgis are to put in a guest appearance.

         The Queen informs us that it is Christmas and that Jesus was born at this time. I am intrigued by the fact that her speech on the radio in the kitchen is ahead of the one on the television. How does she do that? The prospect of washing all those pots in the sink suddenly seems quite appealing. I return to the kitchen to find the dog has thrown up on the doorstep and then attempted to bury it with the doormat, bless him. I spend a happy half an hour cleaning up vomit and hundreds of doormat tufts. I don’t think I fancy those chicken sandwiches now.

         Evening falls and it’s time to settle down in front of the television with a drink or seven. Just as I become interested in a gripping drama, the dog decides to investigate his presents again. He decides he rather likes the plucked latex chicken with the extraordinarily loud squeak. After two hours of throwing it for him to retrieve, the television inaudible now, I have a strong urge to use up the leftover stuffing but am unsure whether to use it on the latex chicken or the dog. I think I’ll have another drink and no doubt another hangover tomorrow. Still, we all know the cure for that; the hair of the dog, what else?