First there鈥檚 the hassle of fumbling with tangled strings of Christmas lights in December, and now there鈥檚 getting them all tangled up again in January.
At least the December fussing and cussing is rewarded with bright and cheerful lights throughout the neighbourhood and glorious decorations through the home.
The January ritual 鈥� Jan. 6, if you鈥檙e doing it right 鈥� is just as cumbersome and bothersome, and the lights elicit a renewed string of profanity 鈥� if you鈥檙e doing it right.
And then you鈥檙e left with the cold, dank greyness of lengthening midwinter afternoons.
Pippin is a dog. To you and me, he鈥檚 a small dog. But to small dogs, there is no such thing as a small dog. He鈥檚 a dog.
His elder brother Sammy... well... he鈥檚 not a dog, he鈥檚 a poodle.
When we鈥檙e on walks, people are often taken by him. They鈥檒l say something like, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a nice dog you have.鈥�
And Sam will look around eagerly for it. He likes dogs.
Somewhere along the way, however, he figured out that he himself is a poodle.
And somewhere further along the way, he came to love Christmas.
When Christmas fixings come down from the attic, he gets antsy. He hovers over every decoration as we put them up. Things wrapped in paper get expectant attention. He knows Santa鈥檚 gifts come that way. Each time we tell him he must wait, he waits... almost patiently.
On Christmas morning, Sammy eagerly accepts his presents and carefully unwraps them.
Toys received that morning become his favourites through the ensuing year, especially during that decorated period that gives birth to the next Christmas.
The further back the Christmas, the more treasured the toy. He has three glow balls 鈥� all identical, to you and me 鈥� but only one is his Christmas Ball from four years ago.
This year, as usual, he became subdued when I pulled out the boxes to store away the trappings of Christmas.
To add to our melancholy at the season鈥檚 end, however, this year we saw him gather his Christmas toys and then drop them 鈥� tentatively, haltingly, sadly 鈥� into the boxes.
If he were a child of four, instead of a poodle of nine, there would have been tears of joy when we finally convinced him his Christmas toys could stay out.
Heck, I鈥檓 not even sure anymore that Samwise is a poodle.
