In the past couple of days, several of my friends have begun decorating their homes for the holidays. Two of them have confirmed Christmas trees in full regalia, and they’ve received mixed responses on social media. Some declare it’s too early; some say a month isn’t long enough to celebrate. The rule-abiding part of me agrees that convention should be abided by; Friday is the earliest time to fetch those attic boxes.
But then again, the Hallmark Channel has made me a sucker for Christmas movies, so the spirit has been in me for nearly a month. This year, they started showing them BEFORE Halloween, which was fine and dandy with me. Let’s face it; Thanksgiving movies are rare. Thanksgiving songs are rare. I love giving thanks, and I love borderline gluttony. But Christmas is MAGICAL.
I confess I’m itching to put up my Coca-Cola Christmas villages, to lay out the several ornament-themed Christmas kitchen mats that are so soft on my overworked feet, to hang jingle bells on my doors, and lights on the staircase. But we’re HOSTING Thanksgiving this year, so I have to keep it in check. I have to welcome guests into the world of browns and oranges, not red and greens. I may want to burst inside and launch into rounds of “Feliz Navidad,” but I’ll have to be the anti-Elf, restrained, focused on keeping the coffee cups full and not the yuletide gaiety. Not yet, Santa. Not yet.
But I tell you what’s going down that Black Friday morning–that tree goes up. That pre-lit 8-foot tree, my friends. And the magic can commence.
“I say, old gal, calm down. Be like a duck. Calm on the surface, but always paddling like the dickens underneath.”
Then he guides her like a true gentleman, to show her how dogs of distinction comport themselves in the suburbs.
He also knighted her for her British service.
And he demonstrated how to keep a stiff upper lip.
Cone Dog finished up her last antibiotic with peanut butter, and her incision is healing nicely. We even gave her the bath of all baths last night–although technically it was a shower. All the layers of multiple animal shelter germs went down the drain, and all her cloth items were freshly laundered, so she can be the Queen of Sheba like crazy dog ladies let their dogs become. It shall not be so! The human is the master. Never defy the Dog Whisperer.
Anyway, we figured it was time to let her cavort with Tonto, eight years her senior, since they will be
cellmates friends till death do them part. She quickly established herself as younger, faster, and more energetic.
Who was this demon invading his territory? Why did she want to play? He just wants to lie around in his comfortable obesity and unquenchable need for attention and submissively pee himself, as he has always done. But Cone Dog is the captain now. Cone Dog controls her bladder, and Cone Dog controls Tonto. Tonto’s face says it all. Why couldn’t you have let me be an only dog??
Because, Tonto, God said it was not good for man to be alone. So now your neutered self and her spayed self can have have many years of merriment together. You’re welcome.
The advertisers may try to bring your eye to their “geometric touches,” but those zigzag white sandal straps put me in mind of the sour cream flourishes on a Chuy’s Tex-Mex platter.
All this can be yours for just over $10. The shoes? Just over a grand. Which would you prefer?