By Mark Henderson
As I pulled up into my driveway, I could not help but notice the veritable mountain of “stuff” visible through my headlights. Obviously, Pupp and Lucy had spent an entire day working hard to amass a collection of toys that ran the gamut of age, gender, and tastes. I left the truck on and got out. I just had to take a better look.
Other than that lone, arcane word that popped out of my lips, I was speechless. It appeared that these knuckleheads had been on some sort of “I bet I can top that” running series of treasure hunts. And judging from the condition of some of their new toys, some appeared as if they had been stolen right out of the arms of crying babes.
“You Grinchy bastards!”
That just made them wag their tails even more feverishly! They ran excitedly to show me the booty collected from their multiple forays into the neighbors’ yards. Lucy grabbed a red, furry Cookie Monster and shook it like a banshee.
Pupp picked up a baby that burps and cries and started carrying it off. At first, I recoiled when it went “wah, wah…” fearing the worst, but realized it was, thank God, only a doll. Lucy quickly got jealous, dropped Cookie Monster and jumped on Pupp, trying with all her might, deft athletic skill, boundless energy, and sharp teeth to wrest control of the dolly that burps and farts.
I looked around at the carnage that littered my driveway: A shoe, a galosh, a snow boot, a cammo Johnboat cushion, a headless G.I. Joe, a baby’s coat, a full-size football, a woman’s high-heel pump, and various and sundry small furry creatures. Some of the stuff looked like it was finding a reuse with these mongrels after a stint in the dump, but the rest looked like they had been plucked from under a Christmas tree.
“Grinches! You guys are so gonna get either you or me or all of us shot.”
Unfazed, they came running up, panting and wagging and jumping, as I dragged my weary body back to the truck. Now, Pupp and Lucy know not to jump up on me when I leave in the morning and when I come back at night. I mean, we have to have some rules of order here at Henderson Acres. But apparently, in all the excitement of “Christmas”, Lucy lost her mind and leapt up—not on my pants mind you—but on my white dress shirt. It was like someone had given her an espresso bean suppository; she was so jacked up, launching like a missile.
After I got the truck shut off and my stuff hauled in, I went out to feed and water the dogs. The porch was covered with fuzz—the liner material for their bed—in big piles all over the porch.
I figured I’d plug in my lone string of Christmas lights, hoping that would light some of the Grinch out of the itty-bitty hearts of these mutants. I went down and around the porch where the light string end hung down near the outlet. I picked up the string end—a good 3 or 4 feet off the ground—to discover that there was no plug anymore. Apparently, “Espresso Butt” bet her brother that she could hop up and get the plug. She did and apparently caught the plug in her teeth and hung on till it snapped.
So, that is how my dogs stole Christmas.
“You Grinchy bastards.”
“You’re a monster Mr. Grinch. Your heart’s an empty hole…The three words that best describe you, and I quote: Stink. Stank. Stunk.”
Go Green! If you don’t buy a copy of Running, And Other Bad Habits today, we’ll have to resort to burning one copy per day just to keep the house warm. Save the planet!