Christmas Madness...A Dog's Survival Kit

Christmas Madness…..A Dog’s Survival Kit

The Christmas clock ticks, ticks, ticks…near, nearer … here. The waning seconds scream out the tyranny of the urgent. Santa will have to be prepared for his role, and there is shopping to do, food to cook, family to feed, cards to write, houses to decorate, parties to attend, toys to assemble…Oh, that we had more time.

Christmas is not all that easy to endure, for humans or dogs. Much is written about the joys of Christmas, but what of its travails? Survival kits are plentiful for humans, but what about dogs?

There’s nothing quite like hearing directly from a dog how to enjoy and to cope with Christmas. Of course, Mac, an alter ego, is chewing my leg off for his turn at the computer, so, what the heck…I give him to you for his own story. Mac, it’s all yours, pal.

“Well, finally. Hi, my name is MacDuff, a solid 25 pound ball of snow-white fur and scion of a fine litter with venerable Scottish lineage. I am a 35 year old (dog years, that is) West Highland terrier, bred for fierce rodent hunting and amorous adventures. I must candidly admit to being extremely territorial and curious, especially when it comes to food. My name should have been “Hoover,” since I resemble a small vacuum cleaner, and I practice keeping my nose to the floor, lest any food morsels be left for spiders or other lesser creatures.

I have a live-in girl friend whose name is Sophie, also a Westie. But due to certain procedures early in our lives, we have only a platonic relationship, which really is not all that bad. It solves a multitude of nocturnal notions and makes for an undisturbed night’s sleep. I consult with her on many things, but I am the resident authority on how to survive, and to prosper, during Christmas.

On my first Christmas I was about 3 dog-years old. At that age nobody knows what to expect and neither did my mentor, Trey, himself 6 months old, human-age, that is. We had a lot in common, Trey and I. The first thing we did was to crawl around the house staking out our respective territories by you-know-what method. I claimed the Christmas tree, many times, I might add, certain table legs and a few suspicious packages. He preferred several select spots on the carpet.

More importantly, we could, and did, use the “innocence of age” to our advantage, provoking only laughter and photo ops as we lurched headlong into the gleaming packages under the big tree in the living room. It was a package demolition derby. Trey must have been only curious, but I was hungry…and the only rebuke I got that first year was when I tore into that finely-wrapped fruit cake…believe me, an innocent look overcomes a lot of wrath!

Two lessons remain from that first Christmas: Lesson One, opening packages is great “attack” training for rodents: stalk, crouch and pounce, especially at night when lights are out. One night as I was preparing for the drill, I heard footsteps tiptoe down the stairs. I slinked back into the shadows, and who should show up but Alex, who was 35 years old too…only he’s human. He must have been on a black-ops training mission too, because he began to shake, smell, and peek into packages he thought might hold something of value. After he left, I resumed my secret mission and ripped into many of the more opulently wrapped packages, knowing I could blame it on someone else. A back-up blame plan is always a good thing!

Lesson Two: Name tags on presents are irrelevant if you’re a dog or baby human, simply because neither of us read very well at this age. They’re all “fair game,” and you get yourself into many pictures this way. It is good training for perfecting that innocent, “Who, me?” look, which will get you a long way in life. And you can further “beg off” by licking the hand or face of your tormentor…what a deal if they happen to have food morsels---or have just eaten fried chicken.

I learned that first Christmas also that we had a certain, shall we say, “appeal power.” We were both cute, I guess, but since I had no diapers to soil, I was petted and hugged more often. And if I rolled over on command, I usually received a “treat.” I rolled over often, I might add, from that time on. And I noticed Trey did, too.

There are certain “indignities” we dogs must endure at Christmas. You would be surprised to see all the goofy paraphernalia that can come in a package. For example, I hear, “Mac, come here.” I know it’s bad news. And what do we have here? Why, a tight-fitting red, blue and yellow Superman suit with a bright red cape….you guessed it, suddenly I’m dressed in that silly costume, hooked to my leash and paraded about. Photographs are made ad nauseam, and I continue to be the brunt of jokes and the laughing-stock of the neighborhood. A simple big red ribbon would have accomplished the same thing, and cheaper, too (I’m a Scot, don’t forget).

Being a boy dog, though, I am saved some of the hideous outfits reserved for Sophie. For example, one year she was outfitted with candy-cane antlers and a red scarf…and she looked none too pleased. Another year was a tight-fitting pink…yes, pink…body suit. Oh, our parents think all this is cute, and I suppose it should be taken in a light-hearted way. Heck, they were babies once themselves, and had to endure similar humiliations.

Another great lesson I learned about Christmas survival is that food flows freely, especially cookies, cheese and chips. But there’s a real talent to getting it from the table into my mouth. Yes, I have perfected that method, too. How? The “pack leader,” that’s my daddy-parent, is a strict disciplinarian, but he is a sucker for my “hang-dog” look. While no food will fall from his hand when mommy is anywhere around, he continues to “buy” our friendship with meager crumbs from multiple sources. I’ll follow him to his grave!

Guests and other family members are easier prey, since, like grandparents, they know they can feed us and go home, leaving the ensuing mess to be cleaned up by someone else...and there will be a mess!

Dogs have some special advantages at Christmas. First of all, we can avoid all the hassles of shopping and decoration that are so critical and that invoke such human distemper. Divorces are mild in comparison. Secondly, we are only expected to remain out of sight and can escape the “drama of cleanup.” But maybe best of all we can sleep soundly when the credit card bills come in the mail, knowing that about half of the stuff will be returned for credit.

No survival kit is complete without instructions of how to avoid the injustice of being shuttled off for days to the yucky “pet hotel” while parents are away recovering from Christmas. First of all, it must be remembered that it will happen. Sickness is the best solution, so the ingestion of healthy doses of green grass, nuts, dried roots or other items found along the sidewalk are mandatory. Rolling in rotted mushrooms or other such perfumed backyard discoveries will help. The object is to invoke a guilt complex so that a suitable in-house dog sitter will arrive…and boy, how easy they are to manipulate!

I could go on, but what’s the use. Experience is the best teacher, and besides, it’s fun learning new techniques. I guess it might be fair to say that Christmas is easier for dogs, simply because it takes so little to satisfy us. Maybe that’s a good lesson for humans…it’s certainly a cheaper way to spend Christmas.

I hear the rustling of food sacks, so I must run. But I think that there’s a certain familial peace about Christmas, like being a part of something big…just to savor the moments is a joy. Dogs don’t try to figure out the science of the improbable, like fat men in red suits who come down chimneys, or reindeer that fly, or sleds that sail through the air…No, it’s superfluous for our enjoyment. Dogs just take it for granted and believe it, not unlike Trey and I did. It just goes to show you that “believing is seeing,” not “seeing is believing.”

“And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

Merry Christmas, 2008.

Mac