Our Very Hairy and Merry Christmas

Aside from nearly losing my two front teeth during a dog walking accident, it's been a ridiculously wonderful Christmas for me.
It began with the acquisition of the Christmas pug, Sophie Tucker, who, as we speak, is engaged in a heroic battle to the death with the gynormous Finnigan. Sophie weighs less than four pounds and most of it is teeth. She spent the last four days sweeping the kitchen floor while attached to my suede slipper.
The last two pugs on my watch, Gordie and Ming (he of the preent, she of the past) were kind, sweet, woo-wooing little dogs.
Sophie is evil.
Aside from tormenting the deserving-of-torture 90 pound Finnigan, she has already caused a major rug calamity after diving through the air, like some kind of Wallenda, from Scott's chair to the table and toppling a rather large glass of Merlot onto the beige carpet.
She considers herself an indoor girl and, while she grudgingly squats for a pee outside, she also has managed to find crannies about the house for her droppings. Thankfully, a four-pound pug leaves tiny droppings instead of real poo, which look for all the world like the entrails of mice left by cats of Christmas past.
But God, I love, love, love her. This afternoon, we slept in the bed together, uninterrupted for two hours. It was Glory from On High, to quote the Herald Angels.
Christmas Eve was the bomb with all the kiddies here along with my long time pals the Levetts. When you get older, you realize that all sacrifices made become rewards when kids become adults.
When did they get so smart, funny and good looking? Were they always so?

Maybe it's just me seeing them with old eyes.
I thought it was funny this year that we bought them all adult presents and they bought us video games.
Huh.
It's great having three kids.
When they come over, you always have a crowd.
Little Skylar, the one-year-old, was the hottest ticket on Christmas Eve, wearing a sweet little pink dress, gold slippers and and a bow, looking for all the world like a cross-dressing Nick. She's the spit of him as a toddler. (The dress came off just before popsicle time.)

Christmas Day was quiet, just the dogs, Scott and Stef who managed to crawl out from under a $80 bottle of whiskey hangover to come over to watch dumb movies. I crawled into bed at 9 p.m. stuffed like the seasonal bird but happy that we'd pulled off yet another nail-biter. A much-needed cheque from my freelance work arrived on Christmas Eve and we thank the folks at Money Mart for once again acting as a Santa helper. I don't care what Jim Flaherty says; when you're a poor freelancer, Money Mart is a God send. (Unlike the Scrooges at the Bank of Montreal who today tried to hold my cheque unless I agreed to get a Mastercard. Bastards!)
Yesterday, I spent time with an old friend, drinking a couple glasses of Merlot and catching up on 10 years worth of gossip. It's nice to know that there are people out there you can still count on when the going gets rough and you need an ear. I heard myself choking back some tears, maybe the final ones, wept for two dogs that didn't make it home for Christmas this year.
I spoke to Ming the pug the day after we got Sophie. She gave me her blessing and asked me not to forget about the ancient pug Gordie who continues to snore in the corner but who is looking ever more like a piece of furniture.
Today was for sleep. Tomorrow, reality.
Dog walking. Gym. Work. Another feast of leftovers.
I hope your holiday was festive, and that your belly was full.
There is no room in my head for dark thoughts today.
That's for another time. Another place. Today, I'm all about joy, contentment, Starbucks and a very good deal on snow pants at Marshalls.