So,taking his position on the hearth, near a trusty replica of abovementioned deer, Santa Claus was ruthlessly attacked today. It was the Beagle. I caught her red-coat and fur-trimmed covered, gnawing away at his hand. So much for not biting the hand that feeds you.
If you read yesterday's post you know I pet sit. If you didn't read it, well, now you know but you didn't laugh at the rest of that entry. My own dogs' behaviors leave me questioning my abilities. It's like kids though, I rationalize. Everyone else's seem to be no trouble at all.
I was in the house with this villan when the malicious crime took place. There I was, in the kitchen, making cold pea salad. You know the one: peas, cheese, and mayo. It was deathly quiet, no clatter at all, in the living room. The poor, stalwart fella had no chance. He'd been cornered. I stepped in to see what was the matter. It was already over.
I removed the bodily remains, grimly and silently. OK, that's just for drama. I uttered a sharp and disappointing "OH!"
Trashy Santa now is ready for his next stop, the outside cans. Before the week is out he'll be transported, swept away by unknowing workers, never to see his elves, his workshop, or, sigh, Mrs. Claus, again.
It seems as if it was only yesterday I was taking the Santa's helper hat I had set out away from this same dog. Ah, it was yesterday.
Well, I managed to re-attach that pom-pon so the hat is still a fashion statement. And, I kept the hood from dead Santa to stitch up and make a larger Donation Dog pocket for dog vests when we go a-collecting and a-caroling for APL. Tis the season.
All's well that ends well.
Guinnie is satisfied with a nylabone wishbone. I am hoping tomorrow is a slow news day.
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