After three busy mornings, I was able to sleep late Monday. When I awoke, I did my business outside, ate breakfast, then expected to take a long nap. But my busy-body parents had other ideas.
My Daddy went into the shed and began to bring out the colossal Tupperware tubs. I hoped he was just cleaning it out, but those dreams were cruelly crushed when he brought the boxes inside the house, including the long one that looks like a coffin and contains a dead tree.
It must be dead. It doesn’t smell alive. And it has been chopped into three sections. My parents dragged the dead tree in the house and, with three quick snaps, they raised it from the dead, although they needed to construct a stand to keep it upright. I gave it a sniff — no a sign of life.
My parents started to put lights on the tree, and then something humiliating happened. I don’t want to reveal it, but it involved lights and a photo of me that was taken without my consent. There is talk of this picture being used on a Christmas card. I have a team of lawyers who have sworn that they can quash the picture. Hopefully, you will never see it.
After that sneaky assault on my rights, I gave the crazed decorators wide berth. My Dad went to decorate outside while Mommy stayed inside, the closest to a traditional hunter/gatherer/relationship they will have. I don’t mind the outside decorating. We need our home to stand out for Santa to see it.
When I went out to pee, and check the work, I was horrified. In some medieval warning, my Dad had stuck Santa heads on spikes in the garden. What members of Clause Inc are going to visit our house after seeing how we treat Santa? The entire display was barbaric.
With Christmas dead, I went back inside to watch my Mom continue to decorate unaware that her efforts were futile since Santa would never see her work. I watched wistfully as the Olde English Villiage was placed on the television stand. Oh, how I would have liked to winter there. Their snow was white, but warm, and soft, and the people looked happy.
Finally, my parents had caused enough disorder in the house to satisfy their anti-Claus genes. I looked at the pretty lights as they sparkled, wondering if the effect was caused by my eyes which were in full squint, victims of a good nap spoiled. I must say, it did look good. I guess I can put up with the decorations one month a year.
If Santa reads this, perhaps he will take pity on Pocket and me, and as he flies over, bomb our house with toys. But do not stop here! We cannot have your head on a pike
Sometimes it takes the holidays to find out how vicious your family really is.