Road Apples by Tim Sanders
Nov. 26, 2012

Christmas dog



Today's column was submitted on Black Friday. Black Friday is a journalistic term for the day after Thanksgiving, when columnists all line up at their favorite keyboards to see who can come up with the dumbest ideas for columns at bargain basement prices. We (some of us, anyway) are sick and tired of all the whining about how PETA thinks the president shouldn't grant that traditional Thanksgiving Day turkey pardon because it will make all the other turkeys resentful and lead to widespread turkey riots, and everybody knows how ugly a turkey riot can be. And we're also tired of hearing about how we should eat yummy tofu instead of turkey meat anyway, because Paul McCartney says so, and about how anyone who refers to the puritans as “pilgrim fathers” is a dirty, lowdown sexist cretin who probably shops at Walmart, where all the nasty people interested in ... GOD FORGIVE THEM ... low prices go. But now that all the Thanksgiving Day whining is over, we can move on to things that are really important. Like, for example, the popular Christmas holiday whining.

That's right, Christmas is only a month away, so now we can concentrate on the various whiney municipalities across the country outlawing nativity scenes in the public square, and about that elementary school in Little Rock, Arkansas where a trip to watch the play “A Charlie Brown Christmas” may be cancelled due to an irate parent who views Charlie Brown as a Christ figure and Lucy as a subtle reference to the Virgin Mary and so on and so forth. And what about “Merry Christmas?” That's certainly not inclusive, like, for example, the more politically correct, non-specific “Happy Random Winter Holidays.” And I'm not sure, but my guess would be that Sir Paul also opposes serving turkey for Christmas, too. The PETA geniuses, in their letter to the president, referred to turkeys as “gentle, intelligent birds.” Almost as intelligent as lumps of tofu.

I realize that it may seem like the inmates have always been running the asylum, but at this time of the year they seem to come out of the woodwork. Like cockroaches.

So, in the interest of getting a truly unbiased opinion of Christmas celebrations and what they've devolved into, I had a long talk with an expert on whining and on Christmas. An expert, by the way, who has absolutely no prejudices when it comes to the holiday. I'm talking about our dachshund, Maggie, who celebrates Christmas with us every year. Sometimes we call her the “Christmas Dog.”

Okay, so I lied. Maggie is not exactly impartial when it comes to Christmas. She loves it. Every year we wrap her presents and put them under the tree along with all the others. We started this tradition when she was just a pup because we were simple-minded people who thought she would actually enjoy it. And surprisingly enough, she did enjoy it, and has continued to enjoy it for ten years. Maggie knows the word “Christmas,” and when we are sitting in the living room and mention that word, she looks at where the tree will soon stand, lifts her ears and wags her tail. And she doesn't do this because sometimes “Christmas” sounds like her other favorite word, “chicken,” either. Take my word for it, we've never decorated a chicken and set it by the living room window.

Maggie also knows which presents are hers. I believe that's because she is very intelligent. Marilyn believes it may be because most of her presents, even when wrapped, squeak. Whatever the case, she's been known to pick up one of her presents before the big day and head off for the hallway with it, hoping nobody will notice. She's never selected one of ours, just hers. And on Christmas morning, she loves unwrapping her presents, too. She can do it faster than we can, although she seldom saves the bows. Last year we got her an iPad and a toaster.

But I'm only kidding about the iPad and toaster. She did get a very realistic croaking froggie and a nice, fuzzy hedgehog that squeaked like a regular, live hedgehog, assuming that your regular, live hedgehog had swallowed a plastic squeaker. She loved them, and immediately tried to take them apart to inspect the croaker and the squeaker. She has a box full of croakless, squeakless toys from Christmases past in the dining room, and when we all go into the living room, Maggie will fetch a toy from her box. Sometimes she sorts through a dozen or two before she selects just the right one, which she then brings into the living room so that we can admire how she removed its annoying noise box, too. Even in August, the living room puts her in the Christmas spirit.

So the other day I was walking with Maggie around the backyard, talking about first one thing and then another. The conversation finally turned to the Scrooges out there who insist on saying “Happy Holidays” and are offended by Christmas songs and traditions, and I asked her opinion. She said nothing, but after we walked a bit farther she hesitated for a moment, looked at me with that intelligent, canine look she often has, laid her ears back and pooped. I took that as a negative reaction, and when I mentioned eating tofu for the Christmas meal rather than turkey, she pooped again. My questions had been answered.

This Christmas you might find Paul McCartney and some of his loony vegan friends sitting at the table, whining joyfully over their coagulated bean curd faux turkey pressed into the shape of a very realistic brown, inflated surgical glove, but Maggie would sniff that foolishness out right away and go looking for some actual poultry. Of course, your average wiener dog is way brighter than your average aging rock star.