'Twas the Night Before Christmas

This year, more than any other, I welcomed the Christmas holidays.  With open arms.

Let’s face it.  The year 2020 has been quite memorable, but for all the wrong reasons.  So as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were done, we pulled the Christmas decorations down, and pronounced the start of the Christmas holidays at das Miller Haus.

I wanted to be reminded of all the feel-good feelings that come along with the holiday.  I wanted to soak up all the joy that comes with sparkling lights and shiny, wrapped packages under the tree.  To feel the warmth of a fire, which makes the glitter on the stockings glow.
 

For most red-blooded children, a visit from Santa is the highlight of their year.  

No doubt, I spent many a sleepless Christmas Eve, listening intently.  For hooves on the rooftop.  And the jingling of bells.  For the thump of a big, red bag, hitting the floor.  And the crunching of cookies and slurping of milk.

Sitting back, admiring our tree, with a fire burning in the fireplace beneath the stockings, I couldn’t help but wax nostalgic on Christmases past.

I was raised Catholic.  As such, we attended church on the holiest night of the year.  Sometimes we went to Midnight Mass (when I, as the youngest, was able to stay awake through the service).  But others we went to evening mass on Christmas Eve.  It was during these services, that I prayed the sermon wouldn’t surpass five minutes.

Before you pass judgement … allow me to explain.

Christmas Eve meant being with family.  My mom’s side of the family, to be exact.  My Grandmother (Oma), my aunts and uncles, and 9 of my 11 cousins (because sadly, the youngest 2 lived out of state) all together under one roof.

There were presents under the tree.  Goodies on the table.  And tons of memories to be made.

The cousins drew names each year.  And of course, everyone had gifts for Oma.  In return, Oma always made sure there was an envelope under the tree for each of us.  An envelope with cold-hard cash tucked inside. 

As a very young child, I received a whole $5, which was a lot for a child in her first years of elementary school.  The amounts then increased in increments of $5 every few years. 

Look out, Winn’s, here I come!

When I was older (maybe 14 or so), my aunt, who was also my Godmother, gave me a jade ring.  One given to her by her Godmother.  And to her Godmother’s Godmother before her.  One that someday, I would pass on to my own Goddaughter.

Oma and Aunt Ginny (my Godmother)

I was never lucky enough to have a Goddaughter but hoped that one day I could pass it along to a Granddaughter instead.  That precious piece of jewelry was stolen a few years ago when our home was broken into.  Along with a gumball-machine ring which was given to me by my Opa.  While getting most of my jewelry stolen was devastating, it’s these two pieces that I miss the most.

We always had (what I think of as) the traditional Christmas meal:  turkey, dressing, and all the trimmings.  And pies.  And cookies.  Oh, the cookies! 

Oma made my most favorite cookie in all the world at Christmas-time.  Technically, they’re called Festive Cookies, but they’ll always be “Oma’s Cookies” to me. 

An old German recipe, chock full of butter, flour, butter, brown sugar, butter, vanilla, and did I mention butter?  

Covered in brightly-colored sugar, these scream “Christmas” to me.

It was a good day, when, on a random Friday, in July, we went to visit Oma and there were Festive Cookies in the cookie jar!

When my son was old enough to wrap his little paws around a ball of cookie dough, I introduced him to the joy of Oma’s Cookies.  Making them together became our own Christmas tradition. 

To do so, was no small fete.  I would struggle, using a hand-mixer, to blend the one pound of butter and the Four. And. One. Half. Cups. Of. Flour. The mound o’ dough then required chilling for 24 hours. 

Planning.  Was tantamount when making Oma’s Cookies.

At the 24-hour mark, it was time to enlist Evan’s tiny hands in rolling the dough into balls and covering them with brightly-colored sugar. 

Santa was one lucky dude in our house – for Oma’s Cookies, alongside a tall glass of milk, always awaited his arrival.

Things have changed a bit in the cookie-making department.  For starters, I no longer have to struggle using a hand-mixer when mixing the dough (thank you, Ninja Blender!) and Evan isn’t always able to help. 

So Keith and I have introduced the tradition to our grandbabies.  Our pumpkin-girl and man-cub love rolling the dough in sugar.  And yes, we end up with a lot more pink and blue cookies that way.  

But honestly, Santa doesn’t really care.

And Keith and I now enjoy Oma’s Cookies with a big glass of milk on Christmas Eve.

After leaving Oma’s, excitement filled the air.  Or perhaps that was the smell of eggnog on my dad’s shirt.

Had Santa been to our house yet?  Or perhaps he was still somewhere over Australia.

I always bemoaned the fact that my childhood home didn’t have a fireplace.  And not just because I was a bit of a firebug when I was growing up (I used to sit outside for hours, melting candles over old wine bottles). 

But because I couldn’t find any plausible means by which the jolly, big guy in the bright red suit could get into our home to deliver the goods.

Without a fireplace, there was no mantle from which to hang the stockings.  We did, however, have ample antlers from which to hang the stockings, thanks to my dad’s deer heads.  

The same deer heads that stared down and frightened my friends during sleepovers.  I think those marbled eyes probably scared Santa a bit too.

Mom excitedly opening a gift while an antelope looks on

But the big question remained.  How exactly, was Santa supposed to get in?

My parents told me they’d leave the back door open for him.  But really, how safe is that?

The next year, a spare key, they said, would be left in a secret hiding place.  Not to worry.  Because Santa was all-knowing.  He’d know exactly where the spare key was.

Just like he knew exactly what we wanted!

When I was 7, my letter to Santa appeared in the local newspaper.  In my own handwriting (everyone else’s was in type-print).  And my very own drawing of a rather slim-faced Santa with a very tall hat.  I was sure I would be getting what I wished for!  Santa reads the paper, right?

I forget what exactly I wished for that year, and had I had more time on my hands, I dare say I would’ve found the long-since yellowed newspaper clipping in one of a dozen boxes of photos and keepsakes which my mom has held onto.

Christmas morning was full of laughter.  And joy.  Screams of delight.  And wrapping paper littering the floor.

I remember one Christmas, receiving “ Mrs. Beasley”.  A replica of the doll carried by Buffy in the 60’s TV series “Family Affair”.  She had curly blonde hair that reminded me of my Oma.  Plastic glasses that if memory serves, came off and oh how I wished I had glasses too!  A bright blue and white polka-dotted dress and bright yellow shoes.  And a pull-string – she TALKED! 

Mrs. Beasley and I were thick as thieves (as if a six-year-old could be a thief); I took her everywhere.  When I learned to ride a bike, she and I zipped down the hill on my AMF Junior Roadmaster to visit my friend Terry. 

And then one day, Mrs. Beasley took a tumble off the bike.  Her legs caught and tangled in the spokes.  It was awful.  Her legs were a mangled mass of foam.  It was everywhere.  She looked at me with sad eyes.  Mrs. Beasley was no more.

My sister and I received quite a few “joint gifts" through the years. 

I learned early on that Cosmetology School was most definitely NOT in my future when we received the Barbie Beauty Center.  But that didn’t stop us from styling her hair and makeup.  Or at least styling it to the extent that children can. 

One day, her hair no longer grew and had been cut so short, there was little that could be done with it.  Her makeup made her look like the love child of Marilyn Manson and Gene Simmons. 

Then there was the year when my sister convinced me to put a racetrack on my Christmas wish list.  Why would I want a racetrack exactly?  Because she wanted a racetrack.  And, she reasoned with me, if we both had a racetrack on our list, we were more likely to get it. 

Guess what?  We got a racetrack.

In 1975, when my sister asked for a 10-speed, I also got a new set of wheels.  A shiny red, white, and blue number (complete with a banana seat and stingray handlebars).  Just in time for our neighborhood’s 1976 4^th of July parade seven months later! 

Oh, how I loved that bike.  It took me near and far.  Or as far as I could go in our little three-street neighborhood. 

Another year, my sister asked for a stereo.  Yes, an actual record player.  That played vinyl records.  And there, under our tree, were two stereos – a big one for the big sister and a smaller one for the little sister (that would be me).

As an older teen, my sister asked for diamond earrings.  Two tiny jewelry boxes were tucked underneath our tree.  In one of those boxes in my parent’s storage room, is a picture of my sister.  Excitedly jumping for joy at the sight of the earrings. 

Jewelry is nice and all, but I grew up in an age when handheld electronic games were making their way onto store shelves.  My wish list was full of the latest and greatest pocket- and palm-sized games, suitable for single-person play.

Of course, there was Merlin.  Someone at Parker Brothers was quite the visionary.  Though it pre-dated even the first-ever brick-like cell phones, the design was certainly the shape of things to come.  In fact, I dare say one of my first cell phones was reminiscent of the childhood favorite.

I spent hours.  And I literally mean hours.  Switching out the cartridges on Microvision.  Playing Pong, Breakout, and perfecting my bowling skills.

Me - Playing Microvision

A tomboy at heart, I scored many a touchdown on handheld football.  And dreamt of driving a race car, playing Digital Derby.  The number of times I crashed while “racing” should’ve given my parents a look into their teenage daughter’s driving abilities.

And of course, there was Pac Man.  A miniature version of the popular arcade game that would save my parents hundreds of quarters.  

I found Pac Man in an Antiques store a few years ago.  Let's not talk about what that says about my age.

I wasn’t always surprised by what Santa brought.  And I know I’m not the first kid who found “Santa’s hiding place”.

My sister and I waited until our parents were out.  Leaving us sufficient time to stealthily climb into the attic to search for the goods. 

And then one year, as we climbed the attic stairs, when what to our wondering eyes should appear, but presents which were already wrapped!  Mom was onto us! 

Not to be deterred, we ever-so-carefully unwrapped them.  Then taped them back up! 

I won’t soon forget finding my ski jacket that year!  Oh, how happy I was!  And I didn’t even ski!

Imagine my mom’s surprise at this very moment.  As she’s reading about how devious her two daughters were.  And she’s (hopefully) laughing.

Laughter.  And joy.  And excitement.  The likes of which will be heard around the world tomorrow morning.

Because Santa Clause comes tonight.

Puppy Love

My very first dog was named Spot.  It seemed an appropriate name for a Dalmatian (how original).  I have fond memories of our Spotty.  He was so energetic.  The way that Dalmatians are.  

We played in the back yard, secure inside of our chain link fence.  Running, fetching, tripping over each other.  At least that’s how it was in my 4- or 5-year old mind. 

Until one day, someone stole poor Spot from our back yard.  And I was sad.

Imagine my surprise, when just a year or so ago, my mom told me Spot wasn’t a Dalmatian at all.  Rather, he was some form of yippy little terrier! 

My whole life feels like a lie.

After we moved to the suburbs, Dad brought home a miniature poodle. 

Napoleon was such a good boy.  He was tolerant, allowing my sister and I to dress him up.  He’s a dog – I don’t guess he had much choice.

And when his hair grew out, he was raggedy and scruffy.  Until my dad got hold of him with the clippers.  I'm not sure what he looked like after that, but it certainly wasn't a poodle!

His looks didn’t appear to be a problem as he found a suitable mate in our next-door neighbor’s dog, Coco.  A wired-hair terrier mix.  

If I remember correctly, they produced a couple of litters and we took one of the pups as our own.  Brandy was an odd-looking mix of his Mom & Dad, but oh, how I loved that little guy!

We lived in a neighborhood that didn’t require fences.  Nor was there a leash law at the time.  And one day, father and son went to explore (get it?  Napoleon).  A neighbor saw them wandering down their street.  Sadly, they were never to be seen again.

Sometime after Napoleon & Brandy went MIA, my parents decided it was time for yet another four-legged family member.  They brought home the most adorable, big-eared beagle you’ve ever seen.  

We picked a name suitable for those ears, which he would one day grow into:  Dudley.

I was in high school by then and only had a few years with Dudley before leaving for college.  

Dudley was there to welcome me home when I returned with my six-month old son in tow.

In his golden years, Dudley adapted to a tiny toddler pulling at his ears.  And he romped with Evan, as much as his stout little body would allow.

When Evan and I moved, our new home felt a little empty.  Until we found a suitable breeder.

Evan sat on the floor amongst the grumble of Pug puppies.  And one particular little pup kept crawling into his lap.  Obviously, this little guy chose us as his family.

We had a number of possible names picked out.  Among them were 

• Zeus (because that’s an awesome name for a pug!), 
• Zuko (because “Grease” was such a fun movie!) and 
• Dawson (because we had seen the movie “Titanic” no less than 9 times – my young son so fascinated with the story of an unsinkable ship … or was it the infamous ‘couch scene’?  hmmm ….)

Once the puppy had picked us, now it was time to pick his name.  Evan ran through the list, calling him by each of the 12 names on our list.  But the one (and only) name he responded to was Dawson.

Dawson was such a special dog.  He was one of those dogs that people were drawn to.  His personality was demanding, but cuddly.  Playful, yet stubborn.  He oozed a “Look at how cute I am!  Don’t you want to pet me?" kind of vibe.

Of course, he had a favorite toy: a purple pig.  A pug and his pig.  He played with it for hours.  As he grew older, tug-of-war became a favorite.  Every Christmas, Santa would put a bungee-type tug-toy in Dawson’s stocking.  Just in time too – because the previous year’s stocking stuffer was just about bungee’d out.

His smush-face and big brown eyes, while ugly to others, were what drew us to the breed.  But as a result of his shortened nasal passages, he snorted.  A lot.  And snored.  A WHOLE lot.  Oh my goodness, that dog could snore!  I mean … from his bed in the kitchen, you could hear him from every other room in the house! 

Ear plugs were my friend! 

And he got the zoomies.  Frequently.  I could never quite figure out what prompted them, but it brought us a great amount of laughter as he soared from one room to the next, round and round in circles throughout the living room.  His tail tucked between his legs, his snorts louder and louder with each pass. 

Until … he decided that was enough for one day and collapsed.  Immediately falling asleep.  And snoring.

And then there was the appetite!  If you’re unfamiliar with pugs, the term ‘voracious’ is an inadequate way to describe their appetites.  Dawson loved to eat!  Anything and everything.  Except broccoli.  He refused broccoli.

He loved to play with balloons – chasing them around the house, barking at them.  And when they popped, he ate those too! Oh, how we laughed at the thought of him farting (he did that a lot too!) and floating skyward as a result.

He and Evan grew up together.  A boy and his pug.

When Evan went away to college, it was just me and Dawson.  He was my snuggle-buddy and most evenings would find us on the couch, falling asleep together; his snoring providing a rhythmic cadence, which I now found completely soothing.

As the years went by, gray infiltrated Dawson’s mask, and I knew it was going to be important for me to have a constant companion once Dawson crossed the rainbow bridge (me being a single mom and now empty-nester).  

Additionally, I had heard that an older dog will help train a new one; teach them the ways of the world, and more importantly, how to train mom.

Having long-tired of the annual shed-fest that was Dawson (let’s just say I know how the bearded lady felt!), I decided I wanted a hypoallergenic dog.  One whose hair would stay attached to his body. 

I couldn't get away from the smuch-face, though! 

So when the parents of a friend of mine had a litter of shih tzus available, I “baby sat” one of them for the weekend.  I'm still baby-sitting him today!

They named him Snoopy because they found throughout his first five months, that he was the most curious of little things. 

Because I’m a Disney lover (It Was All Started by a Mouse), I wanted him to have a Disney name.  But not one that was too obvious.

A co-worker told me about a mouse (puppet) that used to appear on The Ed Sullivan Show long before my time; his name:  Topogigio.  Obviously, something Italian.  

Topolino is Italian.  That’s what the Italians call Mickey Mouse!  We call him Topo for short.

Dawson accepted Topo.  Kinda.  The furry little puppy who chewed on his ears.  And tugged at his curly tail.  The two of them bonding. 

Not that they had a choice, given that they were crated together in a sizable crate whilst I worked.

When Keith entered the picture, Dawson was beginning to eye the rainbow bridge curiously.  Keith’s daughter, Courtney, told me she knew I was “the one” when her dad waited patiently as Dawson emptied his bladder onto Keith’s Berber carpet.  And then cleaned it up without complaint.

I asked my vet how I would know.  When it was time to let the goodest boy go.  The vet simply said “You’ll see it in his eyes.  The look that says, ‘Mom, you gotta help me out here!’”

And so it happened that Dawson’s eyes pleaded with me.  To help him out.  He needed our assistance to get in and out of the house to do his business, when he was able to hold his business long enough to go outside.

When he refused his food, I knew I couldn’t put off the inevitable.

Once the decision was made, Evan came over for one last visit.  One last day for the boy and his pug.  And he cried.  We all did.

I was devastated when the vet’s office called to schedule the appointment.  I was in the middle of a meeting at work and my co-workers politely left the room to give me a moment.  My heart was broken.

I knew I had to be there as Dawson went to sleep for the final time.  How could I not?  The little pug with the big brown eyes and the cutest, curliest tail, who had brought us so much joy.  He lay on the table looking at me.  While Keith comforted me, I comforted Dawson.  I petted his head.  I told him how very much I loved him.  And what a good boy he had been.

And then he rested.  Peacefully.

Keith took him back to San Antonio and buried him in the flower bed in the front yard.  He carved a headstone for him.  And I visit him often.

Now an only dog, Topo looked for Dawson for several days.  Before realizing he wasn’t coming home.

He’s a sensitive and compassionate little thing.  Topo is quick to jump into your lap if you’re feeling ill and has stayed in my lap all night long following surgery, his presence lulling me to sleep (or maybe that was the drugs.)  

But his sensibilities don’t stop there.  If you’re feeling a little down, he’ll curl up on your lap.  His soft fur and gentle breathing, comforting in a way you didn’t know you needed.

He’s still curious.  New furniture – sniff.  Something new gets added to the back yard – sniff.  A stray cat wanders into the back yard – sniff.  New people come into the house – sniff.  No, wait.  Jump – then sniff.  Perhaps I should’ve kept the name “Snoopy”.

When our pumpkin-girl, our first grandchild, was born, he clambered onto each of us, my husband and I, after we returned from the hospital.  He sniffed us from shoulder to toe.  This glorious scent that only newborn babies provide.  Sensing this new human being. 

His human.

The first time her parents brought her to our home, he sniffed her all over and promptly placed himself next to her carrier, lest any of us try something suspicious.  While she naps, he curls up next to her. 

He tolerated her as she learned that she could move her arms and her hands could grasp things.  Including tufts of his hair.  And his ears!  Turnabout is fair play.

He has served as a tug-toy and throw rug for our other grandchildren as well.  Our man-cub loves to snuggle him.  Our youngest, one-year old “Bean”, loves to pet him, and lately, kiss him.  And he kisses back.

As he ages, he’s more skittish than before.  He hates fireworks and he hates change.  

When we bought Plan B (We Be Trippin'), I bought a set of collapsible dog bowls.  Topo refused to eat out of the new, brightly-colored bowls and required us (read:  trained us) to hand-feed him.  That nonsense lasted for three trips!  Enough is enough!  

I brought the food bowl into the house in hopes he would get used to it.  And guess what?  He’s again eating on his own.  Out of the brightly-colored collapsible bowl. 

A few years ago, Keith and I were out running errands.  It was 4:00 on a Saturday.  We passed a Petco with a sign out front that read “Pet Adoptions Today!”  On a whim, we stopped in to see the pups.  Knowing full well that the picks of the litter would be gone, considering the late hour. 

Standing at the door, alongside his foster mom, was the cutest, furriest little guy.  And when she picked him up so we could get a closer look without getting on ground level (we’re old – it’s difficult to do that kind of stuff!), he just melted into her.

And our hearts melted.

Much to my surprise, Keith asked, “Do you want to take him home?”  How could I say no?  How could anyone say no to this precious little underbite?

The rescue told us they believed he was a shih-tzu mix.  We heard:  “He won’t shed!”  Yea!

As we drove home, I began to wrinkle my nose.  I rolled down the window.  Then Keith, wrinkling his nose, rolled his window down.  For as cute as he was, our newest fur baby STUNK.  Badly.  Very badly.

We named him Bentley.  For no other reason than we liked the name.

Topo, having gotten used to being the pack leader in his pack of one, had one response to this new, furry and very stinky being.  Sniff. 

And he wrinkled his nose.

Bentley quickly assimilated to our home.  He was obviously very well-trained.  Having few accidents and walking well on a leash.

When you can get him to walk.

He firmly planted himself in the middle of the living room.  And stayed there.  And snored.  He quickly and justifiably earned the nickname, “slug”.  That dog is the laziest thing either of us have ever seen.

When Topo tries to get him to play, Bentley looks at Topo as if he’s grown a second tail.  And turns his head.  Almost as if to say “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me.”  

Topo proceeds to bark incessantly, praying on Bentley’s sensibilities.  Until Bentley chimes in with his own barking.  Before we know it, we have a cacophony of howling that reverberates throughout the house. 

We’re sure our neighbors probably don’t appreciate it either.

We’re not totally convinced of Bentley’s breed.  He’s barrel-chested (like a pug).  With short, squatty legs (like a pug).  His tail, curly (like a pug).  But his hair, thick and curly, with a wiry beard (unlike a pug).  For the longest time, we designated him a pug-tzu.

Our curiosity got the best of us and we decided to do a doggie DNA test.  We should’ve known better than to trust the results when the questionnaire asked us what breed we thought he was.  My, my, my.  Whaddya know?  The DNA results showed 75% shih-tzu.  Further, they don’t test for the other 25% when the dog shows 75% or more of one breed.  Yeah … we smell a scam too.

Not too long ago, I happened upon a picture of an Affenpinscher (nope! never heard of that breed before either!)  I swear, it was like looking at a picture of our dear Bentley.

Affenpinscher on the left, Bentley on the right.
You be the judge.

After a couple of years and over a thousand dollars trying to determine the cause of and treat poor Bentley’s stench (including allergy testing – I guess we ARE those type of pet parents!), we found out that he does indeed have severe allergies.  To dust mites.  DUST MITES.

A veterinarian friend suggested a certain type of medicine.  Our vet balked at the idea (he still had several other treatments he wanted to try before trying this med, i.e., he was aiming to buy a new Benz).  I put my foot down.

The meds, in combination with a ridiculously-expensive shampoo, have helped Bentley immensely.  The yeasty-beasties, crusty skin, and prevalent ear infections have ceased.  Thank goodness!!!

Bentley, much like his pug predecessor, LOVES food. 

At 5:00 every day, he stares at whichever of us is sitting down and will pay attention.  Because 5:00 is suppertime.  Can you say “internal clock”? 

On our first outing in Plan B, we left the dogs in the RV (with the A/C running, of course!) and went to the beach.  We returned to find the kitchen trash can emptied of its contents.  The contents of which were the garbage bag and the remaining roll of garbage bags which I had placed in the bottom of the can.  The bags strewn about the trailer. 

We’re no fools.  We know who we’re dealing with.  We emptied the trash before we left!

In all likelihood, this was Bentley’s response to having recently been placed on a diet.  We used to put out a cup of food each morning (one bowl), leaving the dogs to fill their bellies as they saw fit.  Well … that apparently equated to Bentley filling his belly and leaving poor Topo, just the crumbs.  (Kidding!  There were a few pieces of kibble for Topo!)

Our vet finally put her foot down and said we had to do something.  Bentley’s weight was out of control.

So now, we limit the amount of food they get.  And feed them one at a time.  Topo being Topo, was suspicious of this new arrangement and refused to eat.  Thinking he was missing out on all the fun we were having without him.  You know, like watching Bentley lay in the middle of the living room floor.

He’s gotten the hang of it now, though.  Bentley has lost at least four pounds.  And Topo, who has always been skin and bones, found them!  That’s called a win-win!

Since Bentley has joined our crew, he’s become the snuggle-bug and Topo is somewhat stand-offish.  Oh, we try to cuddle him, we do!  But when your dog stiff-arms you time and again, you kinda get the hint. 

Topo will, however, snuggle with Evan.  That’s his boy.  And his pumpkin-girl.  His. Pumpkin. Girl.

When Keith and I traveled pre-Covid, we’d leave the furballs in the care of Keith’s daughter and her family.  Her husband or pumpkin-girl would take up the charge of hand-feeding Topo (because … change).  And we missed them! (we missed the kids and the grands, too!)

When we were home and before we could pick them up, the house felt empty.  Quiet.  Lonely.  Even though Keith and I were together.  

With Plan B, they can go with us.  

And their presence fills the RV with warmth.  And comfort. 

It feels like home.

That’s why they call it puppy love.