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