Don't let the Animal Warden spoil your holidays.
"The Animal Warden is here?! To see me? Oh goody! Can I lick her all over?"
The girls are on their way home, the tree is decorated (sort of; I tossed on all the best ornaments about an hour before my party started) and the presents are all wrapped. The Christmas party I threw is over, the house still clean, and leftover goodies line the shelves of my fridge.
The dog is outside with her bone, and I'm here, with my sorely neglected blog. I'm not sure what I have to say. Should I mention how, for the first time in years, I've felt an inkling of that thing some call "the Christmas spirit"? It must be the smell of chocolate, which has permeated my living room. (The heat is normally off in there, so that's where I stored all the goodies.)
Or should I talk about the dog, my standby for blog fodder? She keeps going to the tree, removing the ornaments, and bringing them to me. "Do you need this fake apple? Or can I have it?" She sniffs the presents, looking for hers. She found them in a plastic bag, but she left the wrapped ones alone, and took out the unwrapped giant tennis ball. "Look what I found! You must have forgotten to give this to me!"
Yesterday the Animal Warden parked a van right in front of our house. I was worried, thinking they'd heard of a dog roaming the neighborhood, getting into garbage and cat poop. That would have been mine, who escaped the other day when the gate was open. I was all ready to prove we never let our dog run loose (I actually considered showing them this blog as proof we adore our dog), and that she was properly vaccinated and tagged, when the Animal Warden (who looked way too young and friendly to be a dogcatcher) returned to her van. I opened the door, and the dog bounced out to greet her. "She wants to know if you're looking for her," I said as the dog, overcome with joy, licked her face. No, it turned out the neighbors are adopting kittens from the animal shelter, and she was here to do a home inspection. "Oh goody, more cat poop!" the dog replied. Or at least that's what I heard.
I could talk about what I'm going to cook for Christmas dinner, but I haven't decided yet. I'll ask the girls when they get here. Hint: It must involve cranberries, since for some inexplicable reason I've got three bags. I'm also still in a quandary about what to get my in-laws for Christmas, who already have everything, it turns out. I was thinking of a digital photo frame, which gives me a good excuse for why it's late: I have to load it up here, then send it back with Daughter Number One (who is living rent-free with them now, subsidizing her career as a substitute teacher). Otherwise, perhaps I'll give them a cranberry mold.
It's also Sunday, so I could talk about what I'm reading: I curled up in bed last night with a giant cookie cookbook, dreaming about what I could veganize for the girls while they're here. Reading cookbooks really sparks my imagination these days, more so than reading fiction. Guess that pretty much tells you where my mind is. (I found a great recipe for cranberry chocolate squares! That ought to do wonders for the Christmas spirit.)
Enough rambling. The dog wants in, and in the interest of keeping the Animal Warden from realizing we're not fit parents for a dog I'd better go let her in, make sure she's properly fed and watered. (She got into the Dark Chocolate Buckeyes at my party the other night. They probably would have removed her immediately if they'd known that; given her to a family of Mormons.)
And maybe I'll put on that Christmas CD I bought at Tesco, the one with the cheesy Christmas tunes by people I've mostly never heard of. Nothing says Christmas quite like Peabo Bryson.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, too.
