I get home early enough to catch the late afternoon light but I haven't counted on how little cooperation I'll get from the dogs. The annual Christmas pictures don't go as well as I'd hoped.
The small brown dog is frozen with terror at the jingle bell collar and no matter how I try to distract her, she just gives me her most pitiful look and cowers. The little dachshund immediately decides that the collars and last year's Santa's hat are toys - that somehow I'm keeping from him - and each time I turn away, he snatches one or the other and trots away. The kitten, the only one I'm able to lay hands on, gives me a look that suggests she might be calling her union rep. Christmas spirit is decidedly in short supply.
Still, I persist and after a couple of hours manage to nail all three. Not my best work, I admit, but it's like Tom Lehrer's "New Math". You might get a wrong answer but the idea is the important thing.
Myself, I'm not much of a fan of Christmas. I turn down the well meant invitations. I don't buy gifts anymore and I quietly hope that I won't get any. I don't decorate. I don't miss the frantic shopping sprees or the cards I religiously used to send. I avoid parties at all costs. I've grown out of Christmas except for the music but, oh, the music. The carols and the hymns - Mahalia Jackson, Bing Crosby, Bobby Helms, Odetta and Handel - they set my soul to fire and bring me peace.
I don't think the small brown dog or the little dachshund know the difference although I'm pretty sure the kitten is a closet fan and knows all the lyrics to Red Sovine's Teddy Bear.
Just as I do.
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