Merry Christmas!

According to the song (which is occasionally sung at ear piercing levels in my house) and warnings issued by my family, Santa Claus is not only watching constantly, but he's also labeling handsome pups such as me as either naughty or nice.  Nice pups get loads of toys to rip the stuffing out of and bones to chew on (the obvious goal).  Bad pups receive a lump of coal in their stockings (which, frankly, doesn't sound all that bad to me).

Now, it is well known that I have a bit of track record of being mischievous.  But mischievousness, in my eyes, is not necessarily synonymous with naughtiness.  I'd be lying, however, if I said I wasn't, going into Christmas, concerned that perhaps my fun loving antics might be misconstrued as naughtiness by the big man wearing red.

Well, it turns out my concern was unjustified.  Despite all my mischievousness this year, I apparently ended up on every one's extremely good list because I really cleaned up this December 25th.  Between Santa, Ma, Pa, Sister, Aunt B, Faye (Tink & ZeeZee), Karin (Mecki & Bastille), and Jim (Pa's friend from work who is the human dad to Dixie whom I've heard stories about but have yet to meet in person), I got:

Octopus, Reindeer, & Raccoon

• a bag of treats (yet to be opened)
• a new antler (chewed on)
• an orange squeaky ball (plucked, ripped, and thrown away)
• a giant octopus (awaiting surgery for a ripped tentacle)
• a football (still whole...great for greeting people with)
• a plush raccoon (ripped, gutted, and awaiting surgery)
• a flat plush squeaker dog (waiting to be chewed on)
• a Christmas Mini-Mecki (also waiting to be chewed on)
• a giant plush reindeer with tennis ball feet (tennis balls ripped off body and partial lobotomy?--check!).  

Christmas Mini-Meck

But despite all the toys and all the tasty food I grubbed (the less said the better), this Christmas wasn't all good.

In the wee hours of Christmas morning (while Santa was making his rounds), I was felled by an unhappy belly.  Ever helpful, Ma heard my pitiful cries at the door and got up to let me out while the rest of the household slept.  Once I was feeling better, Ma let me back in the house but, in the process, accidentally slammed the side door.  Ma and I both thought that the sound would have woken up Pa, but we were both pleasantly surprised to discover that he had slept right through the noise.

Still emotionally troubled by my earlier experience (I hate feeling sick), I grabbed my new football toy that Ma had given me earlier in the evening and curled up on my pillow.  Sadly, I gave it a squeeze, but, because it was squeaker-less, it didn't make a sound.

So, in review, Pa slept through me crying to go out, Ma getting up, Ma accidentally slamming the side door, and Ma and I wandering back into the bedroom.  I then squeaked a squeaker-less toy.  To quote Charles Dickens (from a story that is very appropriate given the time of year) "this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate."

Like a shot, Pa jumped up, turned to me, and told me that it was too late to play with my toys and that I should go to sleep.  He took my football from me, scratched my head, and then fell back asleep.  With a sign, I too went to bed.

Later in the morning, after all the presents were open (and some of the paper shredded), Ma related this story to both Sister and Pa (Pa was unaware of what happened before I squeaked my squeaker-less toy) and everyone had a good laugh.  More importantly, however, I got my football back.