A pooch’s present

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 17/12/2014 (4211 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

The following is a true story. If your Christmas tales are ripped straight from the pages of a holiday classic — stockings hung by the chimney with care, etc. — then here is your last chance to bail on my little yarn.

Yes, the details of my favourite Christmas moment hardly make it the stuff of a Hallmark holiday movie. It has nothing to do with the best gift I ever found under the tree or laughing all the way in a one-horse open sleigh.

This is a story about a dog, some tinsel from the Christmas tree, an embarrassing chore and a smart-aleck next-door neighbour and, ultimately, the importance of family.

Many, many moons ago — back when yours truly was in Grade 8 and trying to fit in at a new school in a new town — I experienced one of those moments which, at the time it unfolded, seemed destined to haunt me forever.

Instead, it now makes me think of the bond I still have with my sister and how much I miss my folks, both of whom have passed within the last few years.

So, here’s the tale…

Our dog Nicky, was a unique ol’ mutt my dad brought home one Christmas from an animal shelter. She had broken one of her back legs as a puppy, and the vet had put a pin in the limb that left it permanently straight, like a peg. The animal didn’t get around very well, but managed. Still, we always made sure to tie her up when she went outside for fear if she wandered off, she might not be able to make her way home again.

All of this, of course, meant our yard tended to get a little messy. And one of the chores assigned to my sister and I was to do the pooper-scooper thing on a semi-regular basis. There was a small stipend — 10 cents a load, according to the unofficial contract — but no amount of money would ever make a teenager hoping to somehow make new friends feel cool about flipping dog poop into a garbage bag.

As a result, I’d religiously do a quick check before the undertaking, making sure the streets were quiet and — in particular — that the kid next door was nowhere in sight.

This kid was a couple years younger than me, but he had that cool swagger and was popular at school. There was always a fear if he spied me or my sister doing doggy-waste duty, it would soon be the kind of stuff that would be featured in the yearbook — most likely to succeed… most likely to become a millionaire… and right there under my mug, most likely have a career in the port-a-potty industry.

Again… Grade 8… trying to fit in… most of us have been there.

Anyway, this particular Christmas we came home from midnight mass to find Nicky had not only got into a box of chocolates, but was inhaling that silver tinsel stuff hanging from the tree like that spaghetti-eating scene from Lady and the Tramp.

Later the next day, pooper-scooper duties. It was sunny and a fresh blanket of snow had fallen. Right there, sitting atop the white stuff, was a handful of fresh doggy turds — all wrapped in silver Christmas tinsel and glistening in the sun.

Not exactly chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

A scan of the streets… all quiet. The mission: A quick kill of the pooper-scooper duties, in and out before anyone could notice. Attacking the mission with the steely determination of a Navy Seal, I was almost finished when I was startled by a familiar voice — the kid next door.

“Hey Tait,” he sniffed, glancing at a couple of the tinsel-wrapped doggy dos, “I like how you guys have decorated your place. You really have the Christmas spirit.”

Embarrassed and angry, I threw down the poop sack and ran inside, slamming the door behind me. The commotion was enough to bring my folks and my sister to the entrance.

“What’s the matter?” my mother asked.

I furiously spit out the details, recapping what had happened and, word for word, what the kid next door had said.

Now, my mother — as caring a woman who ever walked the planet — did her best, but I could see that sympathy was not her first reaction. She began to giggle and within seconds her giggle had turned into a cackle. My dad, who always seemed to enjoy the sound of my mother’s infectious laughter more than the joke itself, also broke into a howl. My sister, too.

It took me a few seconds, but before long — hearing my whole family laughing together — I began to see the humour in it, too.

Ambling to the door came Nicky, as she wagged her tail, came the perfect capper to the whole scene: A bit of tinsel peeking out of her rear end.

We relived this story every Christmas. My sister and I will bring it up again when we get together on Christmas Eve at our house and a day later at hers with our families for our annual dinner.

So, what was true then still matters to me today: As long as the people in your own family have your back, the fitting in will come. Their opinions matter most, after all. Home should be a sanctuary. It’s not for everyone, I know. Christmas can be tough for many.

But as we all struggle with the pressures of making the holidays work or shuffle through the malls looking for that perfect gift, I’m reminded of the slogan from that Jack Daniels commercial that runs during the holidays:

‘It’s not what’s under the tree that matters most, it’s who’s around it.’

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ed.tait@freepress.mb.ca