Alright, I cannot channel Clement Clarke Moore. Don't get me wrong, Clement was a clever man, but he does not capture life in Chestnut House at all. I mean, stockings were hanging from the faux Chimney with care, but our world in this house moves on a whole different axis: We can see our breath in our unheated house, there is no electricity in our bedroom and our dog is constipated - case in point:
Atticus received a new bone for Christmas. (Well, he received it the week before the big holiday, a pre-gift.) It was a huge bone. So big, he could barely carry it in his mouth. We could hear him walking with it, dropping it every few feet with a very loud "thunk". Walk, walk, walk, thunk. Walk, walk, walk, thunk. He worked on that bone for four days. At times I would take it away from him when he would gag from shards. He kept eating, chewing, devouring his bone, until it was a stub. And then he stopped going to the bathroom. No poop. No pooping before Christmas. He would go outside, play in the snow, smell frozen trees, mark a bush. Done. This was a problem. I even commented to Jon: "Honey, our son is constipated before Christmas. How are we to have a good Christmas with a constipated dog?" Jon assured me that it would work itself out before 32 tiny reindeer hooves would be heard on our rooftop. I prayed that he was right. (I also prayed for goodwill towards men. I didn't want to pray a purely selfish prayer.)
Two days before Christmas, a miracle happened. I was getting ready to bake a pecan pie from scratch, wrapping presents in brown paper (tied up with strings), and making lye soap in copper kettles in the backyard, when Atticus barked at the front door. I sat down the socks I was mending and ran to him. Just then, a hard, cork-like item shot out of his back end, hit the brick wall, and bounced off. I looked at this Christmas Miracle-a bone shard "plug". Well, no wonder he was having problems! He barked one more time and a diarrhea explosion shot out. I gasped, picked him up with his back-end facing out, and ran towards the front door, the entire time liquid dog matter shooting out at a rapid pace, splattering the walls and Christmas ornaments. I fumbled for the front door, trying frantically not to slip in the liquid waste. I kicked the door open and ran out into the yard, a squirting dog-butt facing out (see example at right.)
Snow turned brown, the porch turned brown, my night shirt turned brown. Just then the neighbors walked by bundled up in their winter garb. They stopped and stared. I tried to look nonchalant, holding the squirting dog butt towards them, and smiled. They smiled back, and said " Merry Christmas, new neighbors!" I sat down the diarrhea-dog and proclaimed, "and to all a good night!"
