23rd December 2013
Monday was the most exciting day of the year, and even though Di tells me Christmas Day will be just as exciting, I doubt it. I know Christmas Day is the day for giving presents, but the fact is, I already know what I’m getting. Despite Di’s efforts, I’ve already seen the new red collar, the large bag of beef jerky treats and the large bone-like toy thing that Di’s got me. For some strange reason humans seem to think dogs are dumb and blind, but I’m smarter than your average five year old child, and believe me, most of them know what they’re getting for Christmas before the day.
Coming back to Monday, Di came home very upbeat – I could tell from her scent – and she pulled the best thing out of her bag. No, it wasn’t a meat pie, or a pair of smelly socks, or even a dead mouse, it was a toy for me. The most glorious toy I’ve ever seen, made of plush leopard skin, rope and best of all, a squeaker. Di brandished it aloft, foolish girl, and then promptly shouted at me when I jumped up and stood with my paws on her shoulders. She said a naughty word – beginning with F – and pushed me down, while shouting about her sore neck. Serves her right, as she should know after four years that you shouldn’t tease a dog.
Anyway, when I got back down to dog level, she waved the thing at me, then tossed it across the room, a clear sign it was for me. I picked it up, shook it about several times, and raced around with it. Then to my horror, she said, in that imperious tone of voice she uses “Bring Funky chicken here, Dolce.”
Funky Chicken? Di’s taking pills for that sore neck of hers, and I guess they have something to do with it, but honestly, I swear she’s losing the plot. If you could see the present she brought me, it would be pretty clear to you that it’s not a funky chicken. It’s a pheasant. Painkillers aside, why would a women who knows nothing about the natural world choose to go and live in the country? It’s lucky she has me to educate her about wildlife and the other joys of living rural (although she always shrieks at me when I bring her a hedgehog and something about her shriek suggests she’s not happy).
I do like this time of year, although I think Di gets a bit hung up about Santa. In case you don’t know, he’s a big fat guy with long white hair who wears a red coat and asks children to sit on his knee. I find the whole concept a bit odd, especially as there is a place down the road where there are lots of guys like that, but they’re all locked up. Actually I suspect Santa isn’t real, because every Christmas Eve after Di goes to bed I sit up and wait for him. I’m not really waiting for him, I want to meet the reindeers, who seem far more interesting to me, even though they eat carrots. What self-respecting red-blooded animal eats carrots for dogs sake? No wonder they can only get out pulling the sleigh once a year. If Santa used Danes instead of reindeers the children of the world would be much happier, because every day would be present day.
I’m straying off the point here (they say dogs become like their owners), which is that this year is the first year that Di and I have lived in a house with a proper chimney, so I’m feeling a bit more optimistic that Santa and the reindeer might come. And if they do, I’m going to show Santa and those show pony reindeers a thing or two. I might even dress up in that stupid red cape and jingly-bells-reindeer-thingies-from-the-Warehouse that Di makes me wear every Christmas Day. Just to make them feel welcome (that’s what you do with people who aren’t as pretty as you).
Anyway, back to Secret Santa. When Di gave me Funky Chicken Pheasant she told me it had been beautifully wrapped in newspaper, although beautiful wasn’t the exact word she used. Newspaper is one of the best types of paper to rip into shreds and scatter round the house, as it has so many interesting smells on it (lots of people smells and very often fish and chips too). I was so disappointed Di hadn’t brought it home for me to unwrap, given it was for me.
In some ways Di can be very selfish, so yesterday I tried to even the score. A friend of hers dropped some presents around when Di was at that place she goes to when she abandons me five days a week, and I decided I’d unwrap a couple of them with my teeth. Di hopped up and down and shouted when she came home and saw what I’d done. She said the presents were for the poor children at the Auckland City Mission, and I howled back at her, my way of saying that if the children were poor they wouldn’t give a stuff if the presents weren’t in perfect condition.
So I’m going to blame this on you, Secret Santa. If you had been more considerate and actually written the name Dolce Dane on the present, rather than Di, one child would be getting two perfectly formed jandals and a whole tee-shirt. I told Di that no one cares if they have a one armed tee shirt, and jandals can be attached to the feet with string. Di gave me a disgusted look, and then suggested that maybe we should give them Funky Chicken instead, but I don’t think she’d be mean enough to follow through. Do you?
I hope whoever you are, Secret Santa, that you’ve learned a lesson from this. Be honest and true in everything you do.
Finally, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. I’m wishing you a wonderful time with your human family; all the love a dog can give; and the sort of presents you can only dream about (like the ham bone from last Christmas that I hid in Di’s little used handbag, the one I’ll present to her on Christmas morning).
Finally, Secret Santa, as I don’t actually know who you are, I’m sending my best doggy wishes to everyone in that place that keeps Di away from me for 5 days a week. I hope you all have a happy holiday and are nice to each other.
Big, slobbery, ham-scented kisses,
Dolce Dane xxx
