Dear Santa (4th of four) -- flash fiction

This is Dee's fourth and final letter written in 2015

Dear Santa,

Happy almost Christmas!

I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire-damaged house is being repaired.

Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. As much as it surprises me, I have to say the Labradors have been good about not bothering them, too. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney's and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

At almost ten, Michael is the wise, elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. From the Disney film Cars, but I'm sure you already knew that. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVDs and Netflix.

Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

Not that they get enough of that at my house. 

Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the little plastic manger, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up. He’s working graveyards. He saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. Thurman got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

Poor Rodney. Smoke billowed from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

After a late dinner, Thurman went to work and the rest of us went to bed. I'd only gotten a couple hours of sleep when Becca woke me to take her to the hospital. So here I am. Waiting on our new baby girl.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. We all thought it was a girl. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes. Wonder if they'll put him in those pretty little pink things they got at the baby shower. 

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy Saturday, we’re having a few friends in for a post-Christmas dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Dear Santa (3rd of four) -- Flash Fiction

This is Dee's third letter to Santa originally written in 2015

Dear Santa,

It’s me again. Dee. You know, the 53-year-old widow living with her son, pregnant daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, a granddaughter, two Black Labs, a cat, and umpteen rabbits.

I’m still sleeping in the basement which used to be very nice. Well, it still would be nice if it weren’t for the rabbits. Rodney assures me that the smell will not saturate the walls and flooring. The floors are quarry tile. Marvin, my late husband, chose the flooring because he thought it would withstand just about anything that could happen to it. Though I doubt he considered the possibility of rabbits.

Friday was the last day of school before Christmas break. I must have been mad to volunteer to watch the kids while Becca and Thurman are at work. Becca plans to work until she starts labor. I’m glad they’re expecting another girl. Then they’ll have two boys and two girls.

They’re having trouble scheduling contractors to repair their house. The holidays, and all that.

Maybe you remember that Thurman is a cop. He planned to take care of the children while Becca works, but he works all kinds of hours. Mostly while the children sleep, so he needs to sleep while they’re awake. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

I thought Rodney – my son, the one with the rabbits – would help. He quit his job. Said he just didn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind cooking for all of us and he’s good at it. But Saturday morning and all day yesterday with me and the kids and the critters was enough to get him job-hunting.

Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s temporary. Lots of grandparents don’t get to spend time with their grandchildren. Marvin would have loved the full house. Dogs, kids, and all. He was a dear, sweet man, but I don’t know how he would have felt about the rabbits.

Michael – that’s the oldest grandson – he’s almost ten and plays the violin. Luckily most days are nice enough he can practice outside on the deck. I don’t know what the neighbors think. Jerry – the next grand – is eight and has just started the violin which means he’s still playing on a tissue box with a paper towel tube for a neck. Learning to hold it properly, they say. Thank goodness for small mercies.

And Maggie, dear little Maggie. She’s five and very bright. She wants to know everything. But if I hear “Why, Grandma?” one more time, I’m going to lock myself in with the rabbits until New Years.

Cleo, my cat, hasn’t been upstairs since I rescued her from the dogs that first day. Truth be told, Becca rescued both of us. Not that the dogs are bad dogs. No one could expect a dog to overlook being attacked by a hissing, spitting monster.

If the kids slept as much as the dogs do, I’d be more rested. After Maggie’s nap, we went to the park. We had to walk the dogs anyway. I took Buddy. He’s like me. He appreciates peace and quiet. Michael was in charge of his little sister and I figured Jerry could keep up with Rocky. Maybe tire them both out.

At less than a year old Rocky is bigger than most grown dogs. But he’s still a rowdy pup. He tries to mind. You can tell. The way he looks at you knowing he won’t get permission to do whatever it is he longs for.

Our parks are well-used, especially on sunny days. Meredith, who lives two streets over was there with her daughter Meghan and their great lug of a dog named Bruno. Meghan is most likely on your “good child” list. I’m sure Bruno is good, too. He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane – too much hair and too big.

Louise Fenton was there with her little Dachshund Mac. Louise always looks so nice, full make-up and coiffed, just to walk her dog.

When I stopped to talk to her, I guess Mac thought Buddy was too close to his Mistress and she needed protecting. He screamed and went for Buddy. (I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a dog make a sound like that.)

Buddy and I were shocked. Rocky apparently thought the Dachshund was attacking us – which I fully believed, myself. He came across the playground at a dead run, dragging Jerry behind him. He charged under the swing Maggie was in and tipped her out onto the ground. Jerry lost hold of Rocky’s leash when he crashed into Michael who was trying to catch Maggie.

Poor Buddy pulled back on his leash trying to stay away from Mac. I guess with Rocky bearing down on him, that Dachshund felt the need to run. His leash was around Louise’s ankles when he ran between Bruno’s legs. And then Louise was on the ground with me standing over her holding tight to Buddy’s leash so he wouldn’t join Rocky in the chase.

Bruno pulled free from Meredith and knocked poor little Meghan down. Now, there were two little girls crying. And Jerry was screaming at Rocky.

As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened or he’d never have attacked Buddy.

There I was hanging on to Buddy’s leash for dear life. Because I wouldn’t let go, Buddy couldn’t get away from Bruno. He had to fight back. But I knew if I let go, I’d have no control of either dog.

You’re never supposed to get in the middle of a dog fight. I knew that, but what could I do? I jerked on Buddy’s leash and pulled him away enough to thrust my hip in Bruno’s face and get between them. The minute I got between them, they stopped fighting.

Forgetting that he wanted to defend Buddy from Mac (the crazed Dachshund) Rocky ran away from the commotion toward the street with Jerry hot after him. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. I can’t imagine what good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy plunging into the street. Luckily, the cars got stopped before they ran down my grandson and his dog.

That Dachshund sat there as calm as could be watching the whole thing. Like none of it had anything to do with him.

Hope your day went better than mine. I think I may have pulled something in my right side.

Tomorrow is bound to be better.

Hopefully yours,

Dee 

Goodbye Gracie Lu

Scott and Gracie Lu

Today I helped euthanize my daughter dog Gracie Lu.

She was.

She was beautiful and enthusiastic. She was fierce and loving. She was a lap dog and an indomitable hiker. She was almost four and a half years old.

She hunted mice and birds and snakes. Indeed she kept bigger game out of our backyard. Mule deer wonder through our neighborhood, but they knew not to scale our fence while she stood guard. And Bentley, our neighbor’s senior dog might outweigh her two to one, but I don’t think he ever won the through-fence verbal war between them.

Gracie came to live with us almost three years ago. She moved from Florida to Colorado following a young man to his new job. His work didn’t allow enough time for him to spend with Gracie so he put her up for adoption on the Dachshund Rescue website.

Our Bassett Hound Bess and our Dachshund Oscar were very senior and we needed new blood for the pack. I saw Gracie the first day she was on the website. I’m an early riser so I had to wait more than three hours to call the number. I wanted to make a good impression and everyone should be up and about by 8:30 even on a weekend. He graciously agreed to bring her to our home so we could see how she would fit.

He brought her in and put her on the floor. Bess and Oscar ran to see the strange dog. Neither growled or threatened, but she was terrified and leaped into my husband’s arms. Not the young man’s but Scott’s.

She was a full-size, smooth-coated, dapple Dachshund, about a year and a half old. And her name was Gracie Lu. Our human daughter’s name is Grace and my favorite restaurant is Lucille’s Creole Café. And she was in my husband’s arms. Of course she fit. She fit very well indeed.

Bess because of her seniority and innate good sense was the alpha dog. Oscar was Oscar. He didn’t care who was top dog, he was going to do his own thing anyway. (I think he may have been a cat in a previous life.) And Gracie Lu was too unsure of herself to aspire to high place. Her integration into the pack was virtually seamless.

A few months later we put Oscar down. He was fourteen years old.  Then it was just Bess and Gracie until we let Bess go. She was over fifteen. With her exuberance, Gracie inspired Bess to youthful entertainments until the end.

Gracie was down to just humans in her pack. She was not unhappy being the only dog. But we needed a new dog for her to train up. Last month a new dog came to live with us. You can read about her. Just click on  Maggie May.  

From that first leap into Scott’s arms Gracie Lu never hesitated to jump – onto our bed, off of our bed, down steps into the basement (for which she was chastised) and back up again. We have a ramp down from the back door to the patio originally installed for my father’s use, then used by Bess. Gracie leaped onto and off of it from whatever angle she might come to it.

My first Dachshund Sebastian had Intervertebral Disc Disease so we knew what might happen, but some Dachshunds do not develop that problem. Oscar didn't. And really there’s no way to prevent its development or, for that matter, Gracie’s jumping.

Sebastian had Laser Disc Ablation at Oklahoma State University’s Veterinary Teaching Hospital (my husband’s Alma Mater) Back then it was a new treatment. Sebastian did reasonably well with only minor episodes which could be treated with prednisone and cage rest. Until he did not and had to be put down.

Two weeks ago Gracie suddenly presented with pain. She didn’t try to jump onto the bed. But she still walked, indeed ran, normally. She continued to eat well, drink well, and be interested. We took her to the vet and she put Gracie on pred and cage rest. At first it seemed to be working. Then yesterday Gracie began to have problems walking. And sitting. She couldn’t squat properly to urinate.

Scott and I talked about it. Surgery was still a possibility, but her future would include more episodes of varying degrees of severity until at last nothing restorative could be done.

We decided that if she did not improve with the conservative treatment we would not put her through the surgery.

This morning she could not stand. She could still wag her tail a bit. And she did. She had a good breakfast.

My husband had eye surgery yesterday and couldn’t go with us, but he called Wheat Ridge Animal Hospital and explained what was going on. He’s a vet so he was able to talk to them doc to doc. He carried her out to the car in her crate and told her goodbye.

They were expecting us at the veterinary hospital and took us right in. They immediately took her to the back. While they put the catheter in place, I filled out the necessary papers. They were so sweet to me. But I assured them that I understood what we were doing, that I wanted to hold her while they euthanized her, and that I appreciated them and what they were doing for us.

And I told them that I was only sorry that this same service could not legally be provided to humans when it was time. I meant that and I mean that.

Having dogs and cats means saying goodbye. Our lifespans just do not match. And we love them just as much as we love our human family members. I am okay with this. I am more than okay. I celebrate the animals I’ve loved and lost. I celebrate the people I’ve loved and lost.

Losing loved ones after sharing however long we have together – if they know we loved them and we know they loved us – it is the purest form of sorrow – no darkness – only light. And tears.

Again?

Again?

“Again?” I ask as the telephone rings and I step out of the shower. Sure enough. It’s a number I don’t recognize. The robotic voice urgently informs me that my car’s extended warranty has expired. Really? It’s only twelve years old. Disconnect.

“Again?” I ask as the dog stands gazing expectantly at the back door. But I just sat down. Can I ignore her for a moment? Can she wait for that moment? What are the possible consequences to my sitting a little longer? “You are such a good dog. Get off the porch.”

“Again?” And this one’s from a collection agency. I have telephoned. I have written sending photocopies that prove I do not owe them $10.46. I know it’s not much money, but I don’t owe it. They think eventually I’ll just pay it to get them off my back. A collection agency for $10.46? How much are they spending to try to collect $10.46? “Dear Sir,” I write. “Enclosed, please find photocopies of Explanations of Benefits showing that I do not owe $10.46 for these services.”

“Again?” But it was 80 degrees yesterday. It’s supposed to be in the 70’s today. And they say snow tomorrow night and Friday morning. “Wherefore art thou, Spring?”

“You look like you could use a hug,” he says.

“Yes, please.”

“You smell good,” he says.

“Again? Please.” I ask while he still holds me.

A New Dog -- Nonfiction

Maggie May

Our Basset Hound died last summer and our Dachshund Oscar before her so we were down to one dog for the first time in at least 25 years. One dog, no cats, no birds, no chickens, no snakes. Just one dog – our Gracie Lu, a dapple, smooth coated Dachshund.

And dozens of fish, but fish are such quiet, unassuming pets. They require little attention and disdain any interaction. No cuddling. No adoring gazes.

We meant to get another dog before Bess the Basset left us, but it just didn’t happen. My husband, a veterinarian, now works in administration and no longer does clinical work, so dogs don’t just materialize at our door any more.

There was that young prairie dog that showed up on the front porch, but that’s a different story.

He, my husband that is, has always wanted an Airedale. We had one once. Hard-headedest dog we’ve ever had! Airedales are the largest of the terriers and they do tend to be, shall we say, independent.

On another occasion we had what our daughter-in-law thought might be part Airedale. That dog was in a shelter where she volunteered and was scheduled to be euthanized if he didn’t find a home. So she brought him to us. Hip-high at the shoulder with wiry hair, and no stop. His only Airedale-ness lay in his coloring, if you ignored all the gray. More likely he was part Irish Wolf Hound and no Airedale at all. He was the kindest dog we’ve ever had, except for the occasions when he practiced Dachshund tossing. He just got so excited sometimes.

Anyway, my husband accepted the mission to find a new dog. At first he looked for an Airedale. Then he focused on Dachshunds. Then we visited the local animal shelter. None of the dogs seemed quite right. They had a lovely rabbit, but we have plenty of them running the neighborhood wild, including the one who regularly produces babies under our front porch. (Which has nothing to do with prairie dogs or this story.)

Finally he turned the search over to me. I told my friend, who trains dogs and volunteers at the local shelter. We especially wanted a Dachshund under one-year-old. A smallish dog that I could lift into the car by myself in an emergency.

In the course of our discussions, I told her about my husband’s long-standing yen for an Airedale and my admiration for Blood Hounds. I do like hounds. Red Bones are, in my opinion, the most beautiful dogs ever, but quite uncommon on the Front Range.

She told me about a new arrival at the shelter – probably part Blood Hound, around three years old, spayed, housebroken, 75 pounds. Sounded like just what we’d been looking for.

I called my husband at work to see if he would be agreeable.

“Go see her. I’ve got too much to do here to go with you. Three isn’t too old. See what you think. I trust your judgment,” he said.

So I did. My father and I went before lunch that very day.

At the Foothills Animal Shelter, they put us in a visitation room. It’s a real uptown shelter. And brought this great reddish gold dog in and left her with us. She’s obviously NOT a bloodhound. But, equally obviously, she is part some kind of hound. She has a broad head, big muzzle, lots of lips, and a bit of drool. Think Hooch of Turner and Hooch, the Tom Hanks movie. She’s not that slobbery, besides that dog was a Dogue de Bordeaux, pure bred. Our dog is neither. Not French and not pure bred.

She is beautiful. Her eyes are the same red-gold color as her hair which is short, thick, and luxuriously soft. And she loves people. We brought her home.

The guy at the shelter suggested I walk her and Gracie Lu around the block before I took her in the house – maybe ease that initial meeting. So when we got home my father waited with Maggie (that’s what I wanted to call her) in the van while I went inside and got Gracie Lu for this recommended walk around the block.

Gracie went for her. And I don’t mean in a good way. That great alien beast of a dog was too close to her mama and Gracie would run her off or kill her which ever came first. Dogs have no sense of size. At 20 pounds, Gracie was sure right would make might and she was right.

What a rodeo. I yanked on leashes and yelled and was able to stay between them to prevent either of them getting hurt. My Dad got Gracie back into the house and I was standing in the driveway with a thoroughly confused big dog that I didn’t know at all well.

I called my husband and explained what happened.

“Is anyone bleeding?” he asked.

“Just me,” I said. “Broke the nail back into the quick on my little finger.”

He couldn’t leave work right then. I couldn’t take Maggie into the house with only my father there to help me referee. Daddy is pretty spry for 89 years old, but not strong enough to deal with 75 pound Maggie or adrenalin pumped Gracie Lu. So I called my daughter. We got the dogs inside and began the introduction process.

Thinking of it as an Arab-Israeli style peace would be too strong. Maggie was not interested in fighting. She just didn’t want to be eaten by a Dachshund.

She met my husband at the door, barking and growling. She quickly decided he belonged here and wanted a belly rub.

“She’s not a Bloodhound. She looks like a Pit Bull,” he said.

“They said maybe she’s part Mastiff,” I countered.

“Have they ever seen a Mastiff?” he asked.

The next day Maggie snagged an unopened bag of hotdog buns off the dining table and ate as much of them as she could before I caught her and took them away. She can easily reach the table, standing flat-footed on the floor.

Two days later I made pancakes for breakfast. Gracie was still being testy about Maggie’s very existence. I put the pancakes in a plastic bag and left it open on the top of the stove so they’d cool before I put them in the freezer.

By then the dogs were being allowed in the back yard under supervision. My husband was getting a chance to watch Maggie’s general behavior and the way she ran, all loose jointed.

“She’s definitely some kind of hound,” he declared.

Daddy found both dogs chowing down on the pancakes. Maggie had gotten them off the stove.

Three days later, the dogs were getting along pretty well. Probably bonded over the pancake caper.

On the fourth day we had to leave the dogs unsupervised in the house for one and one-half hours. Fearing for their lives, I put Gracie in her box in our bedroom and left Maggie loose in the rest of the house. What could go wrong? There were no left-overs on the table or stove. It did occur to me that if Maggie knocked the fish tanks over, that would qualify as a disaster. But they’re big and heavy, on sturdy stands, and against the wall.

When we got home, everything on the kitchen counter was strewn across the kitchen floor. An unopened jar of horseradish was under the dishwasher. A jar of cinnamon was under the table and a box of salt was under a chair. She’d apparently decided against exploring Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning. There were muddy smears on the counter and on the papers and cook books on the floor.

Now I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, but my floors aren’t muddy. The next possibility was dog poo. A careful sniff relieved that dread. And stepping around the couch into the living area, I found the source of the “mud.” A previously unopened box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix. A couple of the packets were in gooey shreds and the powder was everywhere.

I called my husband at work. “I guess I’m going to have to improve my housekeeping. All food stuffs will have to be behind closed doors. Or we’re going to have to get a box for her.”

He came home bearing gifts – a big Kong toy and an extra big box.

“I know what kind of dog she is,” he announced. “You’ve brought us a Bumpus Hound.”

Dear Santa -- 4th of 4

image from ebay.com

If you missed Dee's first letter click Dear Santa No. 1. For her second one click Dear Santa No. 2. For her third letter click Dear Santa No. 3.



Dear Santa,

   Happy almost Christmas.

   I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire damaged house is repaired.

   Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

   The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

   Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

   He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

   We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

   My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

   And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

   In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

   Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

   I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

   At almost ten, Michael is the wise elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVD’s and Netflix.

   Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

   Not that they get enough of that at my house. Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the Crèche, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up (he’s working graveyards) and saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. He got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

   Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

   After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

   Poor Rodney. Smoke rose from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

   Needless to say, we were all in bed early.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes.

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy the Saturday after Christmas, we’re having a few friends in for dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Dear Santa -- 3rd of 4

Image from sites.google.com

If you missed Dee's first letter click Dear Santa No. 1 or her second one click Dear Santa No. 2.

Dear Santa,

   It’s me again. Dee. You know, the 53-year-old widow living with her son, pregnant daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, a granddaughter, two dogs, a cat, and umpteen rabbits.

   I’m still sleeping in the basement which used to be very nice. Well, it still would be nice if it weren’t for the rabbits. Rodney assures me that the smell will not saturate the walls and flooring. The floors are quarry tile. Marvin, my late husband, chose the flooring because he thought it would withstand just about anything that could happen to it. Though I doubt he considered the possibility of rabbits.

   Friday was the last day of school before Christmas break. I must have been mad to volunteer to watch the kids while Becca and Thurman are at work. Becca plans to work until she starts labor. I’m glad they’re expecting another girl. Then they’ll have two boys and two girls.

   They’re having trouble scheduling contractors to repair their house. The holidays, and all that.

   Maybe you remember that Thurman is a cop. He planned to take care of the children while Becca works, but he works all kinds of hours. Mostly while the children sleep, so he needs to sleep while they’re awake. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

   I thought Rodney – my son, the one with the rabbits – would help. He quit his job. Said he just didn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind cooking for all of us and he’s good at it. But Saturday morning and all day yesterday with me and the kids and the critters was enough to get him job-hunting.

   Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s temporary. Lots of grandparents don’t get to spend time with their grandchildren. Marvin would have loved the full house. Dogs, kids, and all. Well, I don’t know how he would have felt about the rabbits.

   Michael – that’s the oldest grandson – he’s almost ten and plays the violin. Luckily most days are nice enough he can practice outside on the deck. I don’t know what the neighbors think. Jerry – the next grand – is eight and has just started the violin which means he’s still playing on a tissue box with a paper towel tube for a neck. Learning to hold it properly, they say. Thank goodness for small mercies.

   And Maggie, dear little Maggie. She’s five and very bright. She wants to know everything. But if I hear “Why, Grandma?” one more time, I’m going to lock myself in with the rabbits until New Years.

   Cleo, my cat, hasn’t been upstairs since I rescued her from the dogs that first day. Truth be told, Becca rescued both of us. Not that the dogs are bad dogs. No one could expect a dog to overlook being attacked by a hissing, spitting monster.

   If the kids slept as much as the dogs do, I’d be more rested. After Maggie’s nap, we went to the park. We had to walk the dogs anyway. I took Buddy. He’s like me. He appreciates peace and quiet. Michael was in charge of his little sister and I figured Jerry could keep up with Rocky. Maybe tire them both out.

   At less than a year old Rocky is bigger than most grown dogs. But he’s still a rowdy pup. He tries to mind. You can tell. The way he looks at you knowing he won’t get permission to do whatever it is he longs for.

   Our parks are well-used, especially on sunny days. Meredith, who lives two streets over was there with her daughter Meghan and their great lug of a dog named Bruno. Meghan is most likely on your “good child” list. I’m sure Bruno is good, too. He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane – too much hair and too big.

   Louise Fenton was there with her little Dachshund Mac. Louise always looks so nice, full make-up and coiffed, just to walk her dog.

   When I stopped to talk to her, I guess Mac thought Buddy was too close to her and she needed protecting. He screamed and went for Buddy. (I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a dog make a sound like that.)

   Buddy and I were shocked. Rocky apparently thought the Dachshund was attacking us – which I fully believed, myself. He came across the playground at a dead run, dragging Jerry behind him. He charged under the swing Maggie was in and tipped her out onto the ground. Jerry lost hold of Rocky’s leash when he crashed into Michael who was trying to catch Maggie.

   Poor Buddy pulled back on his leash trying to stay away from Mac. I guess with Rocky bearing down on him, that Dachshund felt the need to run. His leash was around Louise’s ankles when he ran between Bruno’s legs. And then Louise was on the ground with me standing over her holding tight to Buddy’s leash so he wouldn’t join Rocky in the chase.

Bruno pulled free from Meredith and knocked poor little Meghan down. Now, there were two little girls and Jerry crying.

   As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened then or he’d never have attacked Buddy.

   There I was hanging on to Buddy’s leash for dear life. Because I wouldn’t let go, Buddy couldn’t get away from Bruno. He had to fight back. But I knew if I let go, I’d have no control of either dog.

You’re never supposed to get in the middle of a dog fight. I knew that, but what could I do? I jerked on Buddy’s leash and pulled him away enough to thrust my hip in Bruno’s face and get between them. The minute I got between them, they stopped fighting.

   Forgetting that he wanted to defend Buddy from Mac (the crazed Dachshund) Rocky ran away from the commotion toward the street. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. What good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy, I can’t imagine.

   Mac the Dachshund sat there as calm as could be watching the whole thing. Like none of it had anything to do with him.

   Hope your day went better than mine. I think I may have pulled something in my right side.

Tomorrow is bound to be better.

Hopefully yours,

Dee 

For the final Dear Santa letter in this series click here.

Happy Halloween -- Flash Fiction

image from metsblog.com

Why couldn’t Elizabeth buy the candy? He’d gone into the office early and met with vender reps all morning. He missed those long leisurely, pre-recession luncheons paid for by the reps. All afternoon he’d dealt with a ridiculous personnel problem. How could full-grown people act like hormone-driven teens at work? And now he had to stop and get candy. She’d left a voice mail that he should be home before five with candy.

He didn’t mind that she didn’t work. He made enough money for them to live comfortably now. And he appreciated that she had worked the whole time the children were growing up.

Thank goodness they were all grown up and had been very little trouble in doing it. There’d been no going down to the local police station to retrieve them. Not even meetings with various and sundry school officials about major infractions. What problems there had been Elizabeth had handled.

Shopping for candy should have been a quick in and out deal. He never imagined how many women waited until the last minute to buy Halloween treats. Why did they bring their over-tired kids? Probably fresh from daycare. Shopping in that crowd would probably be the biggest nightmare of the night. Those were, no doubt, the little darlings who would be ringing his bell from five until nine.

Oh, yes, the doorbell and strangers coming to the door after dark. With his dog, that should make for a quiet, peaceful evening. Mungo would be hoarse by morning.

And, no, he would not dress up in some ridiculous costume to hand out candy.

Elizabeth wasn’t there when he got home. She complained about never going out. He didn’t like going out. He was “out” all day. He liked to come home, have a quiet dinner, watch a little TV, and go to bed. He took her out. To eat. Sometimes to a movie. She said they hadn’t been to a movie since the last Star Trek movie. That didn’t sound right, but he didn’t keep track of things like that. Besides, she could go out whenever she wanted. He wasn’t one of those overbearing, macho men who had to have their thumb on “the little woman” every minute.

Had she said where she was going? Probably. Maybe she said something about Christmas and going downtown. That didn’t sound like Elizabeth. He wished he hadn’t deleted the voice mail.

She’d left him stew in the fridge.

Four-forty-five p.m. He considered himself a competent adult. He turned on the news and put a bowl of stew into the microwave. Mungo bounced around his feet. She apparently had not fed the dog. The microwave dinged as he set Mungo’s dinner on the floor. Before he could get to the microwave, the doorbell sounded. Mungo barked like mad and raced to the door.

He hadn’t put the candy in the jack-o-lantern bucket yet. Kids didn’t care about that stuff. He tore the candy bag open and dropped hands-full into a skull bucket, a sparkly princessy bucket, and a grocery bag.

He turned on the porch light and returned to the dinging microwave. Mungo returned to his food. Damn. The stew had splattered all over the microwave. Elizabeth hated it when he forgot to use the cover.

The doorbell again. And he still hadn’t put the candy in the pumpkin bucket. Mungo was off like a rocket – a loud rocket.

By eight o’clock he’d run out of candy. He scrounged through his sock drawer and found two rolls of quarters. But the trick-or-treaters were getting bigger. How many quarters should he give a kid bigger than him, who wasn’t wearing a costume as far as he could tell, and was carrying a king-size pillow case half full of loot? Even Mungo was intimidated.

Nine o’clock and his stew was still in the microwave. Where was Elizabeth?

He turned off the porch light, cleaned up the microwave, and made himself a cheese sandwich. He opened a beer and dumped half a bag of chili cheese corn chips on his plate. He found a movie on the TV. A war movie. He liked Tom Hanks. After this evening, explosions and machine gun fire would be calming.

One-thirty a.m. The doorbell and Mungo woke him. He didn’t understand where he was. There was no more candy and no more quarters. The time glowed red on the cable box. Some kind of zombie thing stumbled across the TV screen. The doorbell rang again. Mungo was going crazy. He shut the dog in Elizabeth’s sewing room. Where was that woman?

He switched the porch light on and looked through the peep hole in the front door – the 180-degree jumbo bronze security viewer he’d spent less than $20 on and more than two hours installing.

And there, on the brightly lit front porch stood two of the biggest cops he’d ever seen, one on either side of Elizabeth in a Santa suit.

Bess

Elizabeth  2000 - 2014

 

    Our good Bess. We got her as a pup in August 2000. Her people had taken her to a pet shop in Louisiana for sale along with several of her siblings. Lucky for us, she didn't sell and they gave her to us.

 

    Her working title was Scrunch, no doubt because of all that wrinkledy skin. Basset Hounds, in addition to being a full dog long and half a dog high, have enough extra skin to make an extra little dog. In honor of her breed's English heritage, we named her for Good Queen Bess. And the fact that Elizabeth the First had no offspring went right along with our plans for our Bess.

 

   She had the traditional Basset sad face, but she was the most cheerful dog we've ever had. She was completely oblivious to the vagaries of weather. Be it cold or hot, sun, rain, or snow, she loved the outdoors. She bayed 'possums until they passed out from fright and treed 'coons standing watch at the base of the tree until one of her humans could persuade her to come inside for the night.

 

    She was born in Arkansas, moved to Oklahoma, and then to Colorado. She didn't mind the moves as long as she had her family. Over the years, that family included cats and dogs and birds. And her humans -- a mom and dad and grandpa, two brothers and two sisters, a niece, and two nephews.

 

    We miss our Bess.