The Pet Tree

“You brought it home. You should take care of it.” I hated to be difficult at the risk of disrupting household harmony, but I’m pretty sure this sort of thing is covered in the Constitution.

“I gave it water every day this week.”

“And now you can clean up after it.”

“But I got it for the whole family.”

I polled the audience with a glance. Son One’s face was three inches from the television screen. He held a video game controller and was pressing buttons faster than I can type to rid the world of aliens. Son Two was carefully accessing You Tube on his brand-new-from-Santa laptop to upload a video of himself making a video. He was clutching his tongue between his teeth in the classic “Don’t mess with me while I’m thinking” pose. I never realized You Tube required that much concentration.

Sooner or later even the Captain of the family Ship of Life has to learn the consequences of random acts of kindness. “It’s not looking good for family unity.”

He sighed. “A month ago everybody loved it.”

“A month ago everybody hung their hopes on a fat guy fitting down our chimney.”

“I can’t believe they don’t want to have it around.”

“Actually nobody knows it’s there. After two weeks the new wears off, the dust settles, and it becomes invisible. That’s nature’s rule.”

He cleared his throat meaningfully and swung into his “last chance before grounding” voice. “Now hear this. Someone needs to take ownership of the Christmas tree. It’s drier than your Aunt Edna’s pot roast.”

Son One rolled his eyes and blasted two aliens with a single shot. Son Two aimed a peace sign and a grin at his web cam and pushed the black button.

About that time, the Captain’s personal dog and first mate, a rambling Labradorish thing who is his sworn companion, front seat navigator, and right paw in all things domestic trotted up, bubblegum-colored tongue languishing out of one side of his mouth.

“Well there’s your champion waterer right there. His resume is as long as our driveway. There isn’t a shrub that didn’t have his help during the drought.”

“At least someone cares.”

We watched together as the big dog strolled over and took personal charge of watering the Christmas tree, which was so old the needles piled on the carpet like dirty underwear on the laundry room floor and the branches were slick as ski poles.

Bill smiled fondly. “See he cares. He still has the spirit of the season.”

“That’s great,” I answered, blotting the tree skirt with Bill’s windbreaker. “But if that’s the way he says Merry Christmas, I’d rather not hear what Man's Best Friend has to say on your birthday.”

Merry Christmas Anyway

I’m a little bit of a late bloomer when it comes to getting ready for Christmas, kind of like those bulbs you have to plant in your flower garden in the dead of winter to turn into flowers come spring. Or maybe it’s the seeds you plant. The point is, you’ll find me getting ready for Christmas just about the time WalMart begins laying in fertilzer and peat moss with an eye toward the bulging wallets and wish lists of early gardeners.

I started shopping before Christmas this year, though. I was going to wait, but the operators were standing by and I had to call right away to get the bonus Ginsu knives which I desperately need because I’ve lost the key to the rented storage building where I keep the reindeer for the yard and if those knives can cut through a soda can like they show on TV, I’m sure they can handle that cheap padlock the manager of the storage place put on the door.

Although I don’t go full out in the decorating area, you can tell it’s Christmas around my house by subtle changes in the décor. Just keep an eye out for mutations in the dust patterns and you can tell where I’ve turned an eye toward holiday preparation.

I’ve moved the nativity scene that I forgot to put away last year from the shelf in the laundry room to the top of the entertainment center, dusted off the baby Jesus and removed the dryer sheet from the shepherd’s staff. It made him look like a flagboy on race day anyway, even though it gave the whole scene an air of celebration.

What appears to be stray branches connected by lumps of unkempt fur in one corner of the living room is actually a small Frasier fir holding up under the strain of the investigative processes of two Labradors, three cats, and an inquisitive Dachshund sporting a Christmas tree skirt. Occasionally the tree gives a shudder and deposits various small animals on the floor like a pile of cast-off inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys. The version of that Christmas tale that boasts “not a creature was stirring” never had a cat who took personal offense at live greenery that was not scented to match the litterbox.

There are 1,467 gift bags of assorted sizes and heritage covering every available flat surface, along with several containers of used bows that are perfectly suitable for family gifts if you affix them to packages with a loop of Scotch tape. At least one of the bags is surrounded by shredded tissue paper. (See the “not a creature was stirring” reference in the previous paragraph.) There is no Scotch tape anywhere in the house, not even in the junk drawer. There are several dozen wood screws of assorted sizes in the junk drawer, but repeated attempts at giftwrap show that wood screws are not effective for this purpose.

The kitchen table is covered with bits of burned sugar cookies and ingredients for partially assembled gelatin salads and casseroles that will bear offerings of melted cheese and Ritz crackers come Christmas day. This is not considered untidiness in the kitchen, but rather food preparation decorations with holiday flair.

There is a wreath on the outside of the closet door instead of the inside of the closet door. The wreath boasts a giddy snowman who is on the verge of bursting into the songs of the season just as soon as Bill Dear tells me where he hid the batteries.

There is a car in the driveway awaiting new tires, a replacement windshield wiper, or an oil change. Nothing says Merry Christmas at our house quite like a car in need of body work. There is not a sense of urgency for the repairs, however, due to the fact that I’m fairly certain that the key to the car is locked in the storage building with the yard-bound reindeer.

So for all of you folks who have every Martha Stewartesque napkin folded into snowflakes, don’t judge me on my lack of handmade ornaments and scented candles. Christmas at my house might have a different flavor and a smell that tends more toward PineSol than pine branches, but the spirit is the same.

Merry Christmas!

Ho Ho HMO!

I don’t know if all the recent news feeds about us raising a nation of obese children are true, but from the looks of things at the mall this past weekend, Santa’s gonna be opting for knee replacement surgery during the off season. If Santa Claus rates as jolly because of his size, we have some kids out there who are close to hysterical euphoria. I don’t know what kind of insurance the Elves’ Union has, but I hope it’s not an HMO. Santa will have to get permission to go out of network, and it’s hard enough finding an elven orthopedist without having to get one within sleigh-ride distance of a team of flying reindeer. And while Rudolph seems nice enough, I don't think he would be trustworthy with a scalpel and a bottle of pain medication.

So for Christmas this year, when you hear the familiar jingle of bells and hoof beats on the rooftop, leave Santa a little something to cover his medical bills. From the look on his face when I waddled up to sit on his knee yesterday, the man is seriously in need of some help.