A Dog Named Christmas

by Greg Kincaid

  We stacked the cookies we didn’t eat on Christmas plates, set the table, and made last-minute adjustments to the lights and other decorations. Todd and I took showers and then the three males (two human and one canine) fell asleep for a brief winter’s nap beneath an old quilt by the fire that crackled with the scent of pine and cedar logs. The rest of the afternoon, Todd and I did little more than add logs to the fire, make dog observations, and listen to the sound of rain falling hard and fast on the rooftop.

  My children and their families began coming through the back door in the early evening hours. Only strangers ever came to the front door. The rain let up, but a gentle winter drizzle still fell. The melting snow and the newly fallen rain moved through a thousand little ditches, gullies, and rivulets. From the back porch, as I greeted my family, I could hear the water in Kill Creek rushing rapidly toward its confluence with the Kaw River.

  As my children and grandchildren made their way in, quick hugs and kisses were exchanged and the house came alive with the sounds of holiday greetings. Coats, hats, and scarves were discarded as Todd pulled all family members to the front of the house to meet our honored guest, Christmas, basking by the heat of the fire.

  This dog wasn’t much into formal introductions and he stayed on his blanket, though he allowed head patting and scratching behind the ears. His wide bushy tail swept across the floor in a measured way that showed he sincerely enjoyed making each and every new acquaintance. After everyone arrived, we sat down to eat and to catch up on the latest family gossip.

  At dinner, Todd again explained the Adopt a Dog for Christmas program to his extended family. Christmas rolled over onto his stomach and rested his head on his front paws. His ears perked up and he listened, as if he sensed he was the topic of conversation.

  My daughter, Hannah, and my daughters-in-law all thought it was about the sweetest thing they had ever heard. My sons just grinned and I suspected that they were thinking, Dad sure got suckered on this one.

  As we passed plate after plate of food, each member of my family tossed glances in the dog’s direction and offered some kind words of reassurance to Todd. “I’m sure he is the best dog at the shelter, maybe in the whole county.” “You’re sure a handsome old boy” was mixed in with a lot of “You’re a good boy. Yes, you are.”

  Todd and I just smiled. We were, after all, very good dog pickers.

  Christmas seemed to relish the praise, and with every passing compliment he inched his way off the blanket and scooted ever closer to the table. Eventually, he just got up and joined us, perched, as any dog with the least amount of intelligence would be, directly beneath the dining room table and within easy reach of socked feet that brushed across his fur and hands that “accidentally” dropped bits of tasty dinner.

  There was one aspect of the Adopt a Dog for Christmas program that had been overlooked in our explanation and I wanted to clear it up. In a matter-of-fact way, I asked, “Now, don’t forget, Todd, when does Christmas end?”

  Todd looked down at his plate and repeated, “Christmas ends on the twenty-sixth. That’s when he has to go home to the shelter.”

  I should have known better. This was the wrong time to bring it up and the idea of returning Christmas to the shelter put a chill in the air. There were scowls on the prettier faces at the table. My sons were looking at me in disbelief, even disapproval. Anxiety was welling up in my chest again. The awkward silence that lingered in the air told me that I had a problem on my hands.

  I was trying to do something nice for Todd and this dog, and now if I didn’t keep him, it would be me and not Christmas who would be crated and sent back to the shelter. I didn’t know what to do.

  Sitting there silently, I allowed the others to carry on the conversation, which seemed inevitably to make its way back to Christmas. Suddenly I felt as if I were on the outside looking in.

  Our canine guest ambled around the dinner table for pats on the head, kind words, scraps of meat, and other delicacies. I just rolled my eyes. There didn’t seem to be any effort to teach him table manners. Every woman at the table took her respective turn at adoration. My daughter, Hannah, a recently divorced accountant with no children of her own, started it. She held Christmas’s head in her hands and began talking in a way that made me sink even lower in my chair, with my arms folded across my chest.

  “Christmas, I do believe you are the most handsome and kind dog I have ever known.” Christmas accepted praise in a very dignified manner, as if he had much experience with adoration. Hannah continued, “Why in the world would anyone put you in a shelter?” She looked up to me and asked again, incredulously, “Why was he in the shelter?”

  “No one knows for sure. They said he just showed up.” I tried to change the subject away from the dog. “Say, Hannah, I have a question on my taxes this year.”

  “Dad, I bet the Adopt a Dog for Christmas expenses are deductible. Do you think anybody has checked to make sure he has had all of his shots? Maybe you should do that for him. I bet the vet would come out tomorrow if you called now.”

  Then the boys took their turn talking to the dog. They were having a great deal of fun and I was sure it was at my expense. My oldest son, Jonathan, a finish carpenter married to his high school sweetheart, had three boys of his own. Being the oldest, he undoubtedly felt it was his duty to make sure the boys were not outdone by their sister.

  “Well, old boy, this could be your last Christmas in front of a warm fire. Who knows where you’ll be next year? Why don’t you just take this turkey and go eat it. I’ve got lots of turkey dinners left in my life.” Jonathan handed Christmas a large cut of dark meat and the dog ambled back to the fireplace.

  I wondered if the dog would be ordering up room service anytime soon. They were all having a great deal of fun, but I was not laughing.

  Thomas, the youngest of my three older boys, speculated with a wide grin and intermittent bursts of laughter that at Christmas’s age any change of environment could be stressful. “Dad, be careful moving the poor dog back to the animal shelter. It’s not that comfortable in the back of your old truck. Maybe you could put a mattress in the truck bed for him.”

  Ryan, the middle of these three older boys, was blessed with a quiet nature. He felt the need to emphasize each of his siblings’ observations only with a wide grin. His eyes twinkled in amusement and I just kept squirming in my chair.

  Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed that each time the subject of Christmas came up, every man, woman, and child looked at me. Todd, of course, understood none of the subtleties of the conversation, but was generally pleased that his dog was commanding so much attention.

  About the time the bigger eaters were going into the kitchen for seconds, Todd excused himself from the table, leaving half a plate of food unfinished. Christmas followed him to the edge of the dining room. “Look, everybody,” Todd said. With Christmas by his side, he began to issue orders. “Sit!” The dog sat. Todd continued with the commands for shake, lie down, and stay. In each case, Christmas gladly complied. When he said “Stay” and walked toward the fireplace, the audience could stand it no more and broke into a raucous applause. Todd then allowed Christmas to come and sit beside him and feel the warmth of the fire.

  After the two of them were comfortably situated, Todd turned on his radio, put on his headphones, and began singing his own versions of Christmas songs, loud and off-key.

  Christmas tilted his head back and started to howl. Thankfully, we were in the privacy of our home, because the laughter was uncontrolled as Todd’s older siblings had to restrain themselves from falling out of their chairs.

  After the laughter died down, Mary Ann changed the mood by mounting her first open assault on my scantily fortified position. She said, in a voice I knew to be short on negotiation, “I can’t remember when Todd has found something he has enjoyed more than taking care of this dog. He has been very responsible and those two have a special bond.”

  I foolishly dug in my heels. “Ye
s,” I said. “And when does Christmas end?”

  There was a long pause. Mary Ann folded her napkin and rather resolutely placed it back on the table, as if to signal that she was upping the ante. I had the distinct feeling that my wartime ally was about to abandon me. “George, I’ve heard the reverend say that we should act with generosity and kindness every day and not just on Christmas!” She picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth firmly to remove any unkind words or thoughts that might reside on her lips. The uncomfortable feeling in my chest was growing worse.

  Considering a response, but knowing none would work, I just hung my head and finished my dinner in silence. Perhaps I was beaten and there was no use in fighting it any longer. I was prepared to keep Christmas. In fact, I would have liked it. My fears of owning another dog seemed misplaced and I was enjoying his company. But there was another reason why Christmas needed to return to the shelter. Perhaps the most important reason was that my son and I made a deal and I wanted him to stick to it. I wanted Todd to learn to be more like an adult and less like a child. Adults keep their promises, even when they become inconvenient. Adults have to learn that things can be good without being forever.

  Everybody seemed to be missing another important point. For the Adopt a Dog for Christmas program to work, families should not feel pressured to keep the animals. If I kept Christmas this year, I would not be back to the shelter next year or any other year.

  With dinner behind us, we cleaned off the table, washed the dishes, and began answering the knocks on the back door as the parade of old friends, family, and neighbors made their annual visit with candy, cookies, pies, cakes, and small wrapped presents.

  My grandfather’s duties as county road maintainer had ended decades ago, so these visits were rooted in tradition alone. The wives seemed to lead this parade and behind them followed their husbands with their hands in their pockets. This was a Christmas ritual that I could have done without this year.

  It wasn’t the train under the tree or the doll in the cradle that brought them to the front room. It was Todd tugging on their shirtsleeves and insisting that they visit Christmas.

  Jonathan showed no mercy for my condition and led the rural masses to the throne. “I want you to see something really special, Hank. This is Christmas, Todd’s dog.” He looked up at me and grinned.

  Hank was an eighty-eight-year-old dairy farmer and someone whom I often looked up to as the father I had lost. He was sharp, fit, and worth a lot of money. His family farm was one of the oldest and most successful in this part of Kansas. Hank inherited a strong work ethic and a proud, determined outlook on life. A shrewd businessman, he had no time for an animal that did not turn a profit. Hank carried a soft spot for Todd and always took the time to show some interest in his life. It did not surprise me in the least that he too would make a big fuss over Christmas. Hank slowly bent over and scratched the dog’s belly with his long wrinkled fingers as Todd explained for the umpteenth time the details of the shelter’s program.

  Hank patiently waited for Todd to finish. He removed the unlit cigar that was ever present in the corner of his mouth and then said, with the authority and wisdom that only age can bestow, “This is one fine animal.” All the heads in the room nodded in agreement. Todd smiled.

  Hank must have noticed that I was not joining in and said, “Why, what is wrong, George? Don’t you like Christmas?”

  Todd, bless his heart, came to my rescue. “No, Hank, Dad likes Christmas. Dad helped me get Christmas. He helped me pick him out from all those dogs needing a place to go for the holidays.”

  Something that Todd said turned over in my head until it stuck. I rubbed my chin and the idea hit me square between the eyes. Hallelujah, salvation had come. I changed my perspective and stopped seeing myself as the villain. Todd was right; this was my program as much as it was his. I just needed to get with it.

  Walking over to Christmas, I commented, “One of the best dogs I’ve ever seen, Hank. He is a dandy. Shame of it is … he isn’t ours. Like Todd said, the county shelter loans them out over the holidays.” I paused a moment and added, “You know, Hank, I’ve got the phone number in the kitchen. They’re open till noon Christmas Eve; I bet you could adopt a dog for Christmas too!”

  Hank acted as if he had touched a hot stove. He sprang to his feet, quickly backed away from Christmas, grabbed his wife’s arm, and all but shouted, “No! You know we’re way too old for dogs. Jean, we have other stops to make. We had best be moving.”

  “It’s no bother, Hank. It will just take me a minute to grab the number.” I started to leave the room when I looked over at Hank’s wife and Mary Ann.

  Mary Ann’s countenance was angelic. She looked upon me with eyes that welled with tears. Her voice quivered as she said, “George, this is just the most wonderful thing you are doing for these dogs.”

  Jean pulled away from her husband of sixty-four years and walked toward me, beaming. “Of course, George, we would love to adopt a pet too. This is a terrific program that you and Todd are supporting.”

  She turned to Hank, who had become agitated and stiff. His tired face suddenly showed every bit of its eighty-eight years. “Well, honey, I think this is a wonderful idea too, but at our age?” He grabbed Jean’s arm as if to plead his case. Jean peeled Hank off and froze him solid with a glare. Defeated, he looked down and muttered, “Yes, Jean, let’s get the number. I suppose a dog for the holidays might make things merrier.”

  I put my arm around Hank and offered a consoling pat to the back. “You know, Hank, I bet that boy of mine would help you pick one out.”

  I looked around the room for Todd, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Each of his brothers seemed to be smirking. They knew exactly what I had done to poor old Hank Fisher and they relished his misery. I did not like it. The boys were having far too much fun at the expense of my old friend. It occurred to me how to make a good idea even better.

  “Hank,” I said, “if every one of us in this room adopted a dog—or at least made a call or two to our friends—I bet we could clean out the shelter for Christmas. What do you think?”

  Hank shifted his weight from one foot to the other and did not see where I was going.

  “It’s kind of like foster care for dogs. You give them a nice place to stay for a week or so, longer if you want, and that’s a good thing for the dog, but some of the people will end up keeping the pets. Maybe not you or me. In fact, Todd and I have agreed that our dog will go back on the twenty-sixth. But many people will keep their dogs. That’s why the program works. Just think how many fine foster homes could come from this house alone!”

  The implication of my proposal slowly sunk in. Hank smiled. “You mean, George, not just you and me adopt a dog for Christmas, but every family should. Jonathan, Hannah, Ryan, Thomas, all of them.”

  My older sons all stared at me in disbelief.

  “That’s right!” I said.

  The bait was set. There was not one but three hard strikes as my lovely daughters-in-law buzzed about the room proclaiming, “What a wonderful idea. Can we have the phone number too?”

  Soon everyone was making arrangements for their very own Christmas dog. In the background a cacophony of grandchildren’s voices pleaded, “Yes, Daddy. Please, Daddy. Can we, Dad?” They buzzed about me for advice and information on dog picking, all of which I generously dispensed.

  Not wanting to leave a skimpy margin for victory, I scanned the room again and found the son who had offered the least mercy toward his poor father. “Jonathan, with three boys of your own, perhaps you should consider three dogs.”

  Hank immediately understood the magnitude of my catch. His eyes glimmered with mischief as he looked slowly down at the carpet and added in a most serious tone, “It’s a bad thing for a boy to feel left out, particularly it being Christmas and all.”

  I must admit that at times it is hard for me to leave well enough alone, and this was one of those moments. “Jonathan, if you like,” I asked in the most hu
mble and sincere voice I could muster, “I could send the vet down the road to your place to make sure your three are up on their shots too.”

  By ten o’clock things were slowing down. We had pitched the Adopt a Dog for Christmas program to all the visitors at our holiday open house that night, suggesting that it be part of the holiday tradition in Cherokee County for families to take a dog in for a week and show it a little kindness. Todd was very supportive and never once showed the least hesitation when I explained that our dog too was just a guest.

  I tried to imagine the conversations my older boys were having in their cars on the way home that night, certain that my grandchildren were carrying on incessantly about their Christmas dogs. While a small pang of guilt came over me, it inspired me the way the children shifted their focus so easily from what gifts they hoped to receive to what dog they could help.

  They would probably discuss breeds, age, and temperament, and then everyone would agree that there was no finer dog at the shelter than Christmas. They would just do their best to choose a dog. For, after all, each animal deserved a home for the holidays. I could also hear each of my sons asking, “And when does Christmas end?”

  What Todd had begun was turning out well. Getting the children and grandchildren to focus on something besides themselves seemed to make them happier and Christmas more meaningful for us all.

  Todd had fallen asleep on the couch. Mary Ann was carrying the last tumblers of half-consumed soda to the kitchen. His stomach full, Christmas seemed settled in for the night. His back was to the fire and his four legs stretched out into the room. While I would have normally let the fire die out, I threw on two more logs and closed the protective fire screen. I patted Christmas on the head and bent down to address the vehicle of my newly bestowed sainthood. “Well, old boy, we had quite a day, didn’t we? Do you have any idea what you and Todd started?”