dunf in space: December 2019

Shaefer/Graham Bezant

True, all dogs love Christmas.

But these next few days are the officially-sanctioned Dog Disobedience Days.

Nothing dogs do this week is worth the time or trouble to yell at them.

At last, there is enough going on to interest dogs.

Many of the best holiday events are conveniently staged below knee level, where dogs get the best view.

But one large dog--in his middle years and wise beyond time or space--shivers in delight at the first flakes of snow.

He quivers on the day he first sees his breath.

He knows the happiest hours are just ahead.

This particular dog sings as The Great Day of Winter approaches: his is a sweet soprano whimper, as clear and determined as a kindergarten kid at a pageant, trying to soar to the tricky "sleep in heavenly peace" moment of Silent Night.

"Gosh," people tell the mutt, bending down to rub his ears whenever he sings: "You are certainly one dog who loves Christmas."

And he is.

Weeks before the big day, The Dog Who Loved Christmas tracks each present as it comes in the house, watches coyly as it's wrapped, and memorizes its hiding place til he is alone. He unwraps it so it can easily be re-wrapped, two or three times if possible.

When the presents are finally moved to high shelves or locked closets, The Dog Who Loved Christmas opens whatever he can reach: eight-packs of toilet paper from the bathroom cupboard, boxes of corn flakes and raisin bran--often in the living room. When everything is finally moved out of his reach, he knows Christmas must be very, very near.

During those delicious last days, if the door opens and The Dog Who Loved Christmas is indoors, he seizes the opportunity to go out. If the door re-opens and he's outdoors, he comes in. Sometimes he travels in the direction of the door-opener. Other times he races from the opposite direction, always timing his speed and momentum to squeak cleanly past his doorman's knees.

If anybody tries to direct the animal's activities, a kinder soul is sure to warn: "Hey, leave him alone! You know how much that dog loves Christmas!"

The Dog Who Loved Christmas most loves his tree. It is always set up in the coolest room of the house, the very space the dog himself favors for sleeping.

It is clear to him the people in the house bring the tree inside as a special present for the dog.

He watches as it's decorated, sniffs the unfamiliar indoor odor of pine, sprawls for hours on the floor, using the family as cushions. He likes it when they turn the lights on. Or turn them off.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas sleeps under the tree at night and pretends he is camping. He makes sure to sleep on the opposite side from where he marks the tree when no one is around. It is after all, his tree and there is a certain pride of ownership. Sometimes people stick their finger in the tree's pot. "Yep, still wet," they say. He is happy to help.

On the day the family decorates the biggest window in the house, The Dog Who Loved Christmas hurries upstairs. Standing on his hind legs, he presses sweet, heart-shaped dog noses on the frosty windows of the bedrooms. Then he slips outside to admire his work, with a side trip under the porch--the better to coat his paws with clay to decorate the rugs.

"Look!" he imagines visitors cry in glee. "This house belongs to A Dog Who Loves Christmas!"

The Dog Who Loved Christmas counts on a fine buffet of appealing snacks on the holiday, always placed on coffee tables and low snack trays where he can see them. There are cheeses and round little crackers, sometimes smeared with stinky fish.

The dog feigns disinterest and prays for a phone or doorbell to ring, the better to snatch a few. At Christmas, no one keeps count.

Alone by himself at night, The Dog Who Loved Christmas helps himself to hard candies from a low bowl, sucks each piece for a few seconds, then spits it back to try a new flavour. They always wonder why the candy sticks together.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas enjoys an occasional lick of chip dip and sometimes, to amuse himself, carries a few potato chips in his mouth to his water dish. There, he floats them like boats. Then he whimpers pathetically til someone comes.

"What's wrong?" they are sure to ask. "Oh poor dog! There are chips in your water dish. Let me get you a new one." They fetch a fresh dish of lovely, cool water, give him a pat and sometimes a treat. Minutes later, there is a familiar whimpering, new chips in the water dish and a new victim to say, "Poor dog."

The Dog Who Loved Christmas rolls happily in the wrapping paper on Christmas Eve and--since he growls menacingly at anybody who tries to retrieve wrappings--gets to guard the paper overnight. It's collected the next morning, no piece bigger than a torn movie ticket, while the dog takes his morning walk. It reappears New Year's Eve as confetti.

On Christmas Day, The Dog Who Loved Christmas sits politely under the dining room table. He is so quiet visitors peek underneath to convince themselves he is even in the house.

"I can't believe it!" they cry. "My dog would be begging, barking and carrying on! Why I'd never know your dog was even in the room! What a Good Dog!" Dozens of times, hands appear under the table offering turkey and tidbits.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas learned at a very young age that dogs who never beg get more turkey than those that do.

Every guilty person at the table eventually offers something tasty, a careful pay-off.

Indeed, some years so much food is gingerly collected below the tabletop laughter and conversation, that The Dog Who Loved Christmas has to slip away to the basement two or three times during a meal, and ralph everything he's eaten into a cool corner.

He always upchucks against an outside wall, so no incriminating evidence can be found til Easter. Sometimes he re-eats the barf for snacks. Then it's upstairs for another pound or two of dinner.

After the meal, The Dog Who Loved Christmas races outside with the kids. It is his duty to destroy forts and snowmen as quickly as tots can build them. Bundled in snowsuits, the kids can barely feel his nips. The smaller ones have difficulty walking.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas grabs them by their parka hoods and drags them backwards through snowdrifts, playing crack the whip. He does this only with wee ones who can't really talk, so they will not report him to the authorities. Of course, bigger kids all think it's funny.

On Christmas night, The Dog Who Loved Christmas sprawls on his back under the tree, fat and happy, his legs splayed like a broken toy with his mouth open and snores like a horse.

Every year at midnight, they take his photo for the family album.

There are eight years' worth of pictures of the animal, paws to the sky and snoring.

So cute, so content, under his tree.

"That Dog Sure Does Love Christmas," somebody always whispers, as the camera shutter clicks.

Sometimes the dog's eyes flutter open and he even hears them say it.

It makes him very glad to please them so.