Merry Christmas Video

How cute is this??? It's making the email rounds, but if you haven't seen it, enjoy.




hug your hounds

Santa's Sigh

“Please, Santa, I would like my own puppy for Christmas. I’ve been very good this year. And I don’t want anything else. Love, Julie.”



Santa sighed.

You see, over the years, Santa has developed a strict No Pet Policy on Christmas Eve. He even included it in the Elfin Handy Helper Study Guide. But it wasn’t always so. How did those humans get things so messed up? It wasn’t the children, of course. It was the grown ups.

There was a time when he could put a big red bow on a darling puppy and place it in a snugly stocking, and know that it would be a treasured member of the family for life. Eve after eve, Santa would drop down chimneys, and be greeted by the very dogs he had given in years past. Cheerful reunions, with wags and woofs, bright eyes and happy tales of living in a family of love. Santa adored seeing the Old Ones: pets who were in their Last Years. Though their eyes could just barely see him, and their ears could no longer hear him thump onto their hearth, their hearts felt his presence and they smiled in their warm plush beds and welcomed him back into their homes.


But times had changed. The dogs used to work the stock, or rid the place of vermin, or provide the family with dinner, or they guarded the homestead, or kept a lap warm. And there was always someone home who needed company. Kids spent every daylight hour playing. And their pets were their very best friends. The pets were important members of their families.

Of course, Santa watches all year long. He started seeing families leaving the house first thing in the morning. Rushing off to work and school. But after school came soccer or video games, and after that came dinner at a fast food place, and then it was dark. No time to walk. No time to play. No time to learn tricks. No time for pets.

And then the families were scolding his puppies for doing what bored puppies do.

Santa has a big heart. A heart as big as love itself. When a heart as big as love breaks, it sends shock waves. Fires, floods, storms, droughts, tsunamis of sadness came upon the Earth as Santa cried over his puppies. Thrown away like a broken toy, or tied out back and treated like a burden, at best, and shamefully, at worst.

Santa couldn’t risk another natural disaster, so he implemented the No Pet Policy. But he needed to do more. Parents were cheating. They were buying puppies, putting them under the tree, and signing his good name to them! The very thought caused an earthquake, as Santa hiccuped in horror.

“A list! I’ll make a list,” thought Santa. He was good at lists. And he went right to work.
· #1. No pets for Christmas, they are not toys!

Santa, the Champion of All Listmakers, could only come up with that one entry. He thought for a moment, scritching his beard. "Yes," he said. "That's the ticket!" He chuckled, and started a new sort of list, and went back to work ho, ho, ho-ing all the way.

Christmas Eve came, bright and crisp. Santa’s sleigh couldn’t hold another thing, and the reindeer snorted their eagerness to get going. Off they flew, dropping toys and goodies for all of the sleeping children.


And at the houses where the pets snuggled warm with their humans, he dropped gifts of love, comfort, and fulfillment.

At the houses with pets outside, shivering forgotten in the cold, he dropped gifts of responsibility, compassion, and appreciation.


And at Julie’s house, the little girl who had written to him, and all the others like her, he dropped gifts of intelligence, foresight, and education for the adults in the home. For Julie and the other children, left a special note:

Dear Julie,
Santa wants you to have a dog, oh yes! After your parents open the special gifts I brought just for them, they will be ready to find you a puppy. They will take care of your puppy, since you are a child. You may help! From your parents’ care of the dog you will receive the gifts of responsibility, and compassion. You will learn to appreciate the gifts of love and comfort your dog will bless you with for its wonderful, long life. You will enjoy a gift of personal fulfillment like no other.
Merry Christmas!
Love,
Santa Claus

Years later, when Santa came to Julie’s house, his heart burst with joy! There was her dog, an Old One now, thumping his tail in welcome. And curled up with the Old One was a puppy, who looked at Santa with shining eyes. The Old One said, “The pup’s been here a month, St. Nick. My girl's parents used your gifts wisely, so I’ve been able to give dear Julie my heart and my love.”

Santa dropped his trinkets under the tree, and gave the Old One a kiss on the nose. Knowing there was no greater gift than a dear pet’s pure love, he allowed himself a happy, all-is-well sigh, and then sailed on his way, shouting,

“Merry Christmas to all! And may love rule your life!”




copyright 2008, PC Renzulli




image credit: http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/santa/sundblom_santas.htm
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hug your hounds

Radio Interview

Our local NPR station, WKMS, did an interview with me about the "No Christmas Puppies" story which was featured on http://www.ilistpaducah.com/ . I did a terrible job with the interview (not enough coffee) but the station manager (Kate Lochte whose voice you hear asking me the questions) did some very artful editing. Though I did not make some points I wanted to, (and, as always I displayed my big fixation on POOP, good lord) the end product wasn't as bad as it started.
The interview can be heard HERE. It's an MP3 thingy, and my computer uses RealPlayer. It didn't come with any graphics on my monitor, but it worked.

I'll be back with more stories in a bit, but I thought you dear readers might enjoy hearing me bumble through.

Patience

Christmas at 'Chateau Cuckoo'

My son came home for Christmas.

I drove to Nashville yesterday to pick him up from the airport. Southwest airlines decided that Jake's suitcase, and one belonging to another passenger on that flight, would be happier flying on the next plane. That plane wouldn't arrive for a few hours. Jake said forget it. He had his laptop in his carry on. He could go to Salvation Army and get some jeans.

It was a last minute decision to come home, but such a welcome one for me, and Bill, and Jake's cousin. I told Jake that we didn't have a tree, and the only decorations in the house are bazillions of wonderful holiday cards with whippets on them. And that we had accepted invitations from neighbors for Christmas dinners, but I was sure he would be warmly included by all our friends. That was fine, he said, he just wanted to come home. He's not had the best year of his life. You might say that everything that could go wrong for him has. Twice. And if you said that you would not be guilty of hyperbole.

So we talked and talked the two and a half hours home from the airport. We stopped and visited with Phyllis and Maddie and gave them their presents. Phyllis had an only son, and had out lived him. I thought she would enjoy a visit with Jake and I knew he would love to meet her.

At our house, the whippets went bonkers over Jake's magical appearance. Their favorite Jake was home! Ah-wooo, woo-woo, wildness and frivolity! Jake stepped back out to get something from the car while I settled the waggle.

When I looked up through the kitchen door onto the breezeway, Jake was standing there with an eleven foot Christmas tree. What was Jake doing with an eleven foot Christmas tree? A Christmas tree? Where did Jake get a Christmas tree?

"Jake. Where did you get that Christmas tree?"

"Someone left it in the alley for you."

My mind raced. The tree even had a string of lights in the uppermost section. The trolley station is on the other side of the alley. Oh my, did Jake help himself to one of their decorations? He wouldn't. But.

"Where in the alley? What do you mean someone left it in the alley?"

"There's an Indian belief, Mom. If you find a hammer, that means that someone left it for you and wanted you to have it. Someone wants us to have this Christmas tree."

"There are no Indians in our alley, Jake!"

"It was in the alley next to your neighbors' trash cans."

I have an over active imagination. Our neighborhood has had a bit of a hubub over a Christmas tree, which looked a lot like this one. One group bought an artificial tree for an official lighting by the Mayor, asking for donations to cover the cost, and only recouped about a third. The tree had lights and some sparse decorations. Some anonymous elves bought beautiful red ornaments and ribbons and strands of beads and decorated the tree under cover of darkness. The neighborhood celebrated this delightful act of generosity. Only someone somehow misunderstood and there was talk of filing charges against the people who "desecrated" the tree. And that was soundly booed as flabberghastorhetoric histrionics, and the neighborhood was very quiet for several weeks, except for people remarking on the lovely decorating job of the public tree.

I imagined that someone had vandalized the scandalized tree and tossed it in our alley and it was now headed for our living room. That there would be a big empty place where the public tree once stood and a familiar looking tree in Casa Renzulli's living room window. And we would be found out and never live down the shame. But no. This was a real tree, and the scandalous one was fake. I called my next door neighbor.

"Hi Michael. Jake is home for a visit. Yes, I'll tell him you said hi. He just showed up with a tree he found in the alley. Oh you are? It is? Are you sure? OK. Thanks. Merry Christmas!"

So, it turned out that Jake was right about the Indians, only it wasn't Native Americans, it was our next door neighbors. They had opened presents in the morning and then Ashly and the kids had already left to visit family in Texas. Michael is a CCU nurse and has to work Christmas day and the next, and then he will join them. He had just taken the tree down and was delighted for us to have it. Now we have a Christmas tree.

The Salvation Army was closed today. So were the consignment shops. Jake did not want to buy new clothes, as he has plenty of clothes. Another neighbor stopped by with a delectable plate of cookies. She heard the story of Jake's lost luggage, and said, "Well, you're exactly the same size as my husband, and we have a pile of clothes to go to the Salvation Army. I'll go get some." She came back with pants and shirts and even a pair of perfect cowboy boots. Jake practically lives in cowboy boots.

I think those Native Americans were pretty smart. Merry Christmas everyone!

Hug your hounds, and yourselves, and each other too.

Oh, DEAR!

I was so excited to be asked to write a story for our local most wonderful community events website. It is a wonderful wonderful wonderful site, the brainchild of two great gals who send out a weekly email directing everyone to the site to see what is going on in Western Kentucky, attracting folks from all over the region, including eastern Missouri, southern Illinois and Indiana, and western Tennessee. They have over 4000 subscribers and even more viewers. So I was beyond thrilled to get the chance to educate folks on the bad idea of puppies as Christmas presents, and the horrors of puppy mills.

In this endeavor, I asked you, dear readers, to supply me with photographic documentation of doggy disasters, and you, dear readers came through! I had chosen this shot ("Welcome Home!") for the feature image, as I'm sure you'll agree it is just wonderful:



And here are the rest of the "winners":


(Such helpful dogs to charm us with their collective creativity.)


Imagine my dismay when I jumped on my computer this morning, full of such excitement I could hardly stand myself, only to find my nightmare come to life. Instead of my photo of canine catastrophe, there, big as life was a photo of a darling little maltipoo, sitting vacantly under a Christmas tree, sporting a Santa hat and coat.

The very, exact image I was striving to erase from the puppy-buying public's consciousness.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

My eyeballs flew out of their bloody sockets and landed on my keyboard. My heart just stopped beating entirely, exploded out of my chest, and plopped into my oatmeal with a thud. Great chunks of my hair fell out in my fists. I fainted. I wailed. I imagined iList readers, clicking on the headline, seeing the maltipoo and thinking, "Oh yeah! Great idea! I can get the kids a puppy for Christmas! Maybe I can find one on the Internet."

AAAARRRRGHHHHHH!!!!!

I had to do something.

Did I mention that the iList owners/creators are just the most wonderful, smart, kind, fantastic saints on the whole of the Earth? I fired off an email thanking them for running the story and begging them to please, please, please change that image! And within seconds, not only was the Christmas tree puppy gone, it was indeed replaced by the Definition of Doggy Destruction. And they even took down the adorable photo of the doodle puppies they had put at the end of the article.

Saints, they are absolute Saints, I tell you.

Oh, if you want to read the article, it is HERE. I am going to walk my dogs in the rain and pick up poop.

The Christmas Party

The folks who do agility in my Kennel Club get together for some holiday cheer, and since this was my first year ever to enter an agility trial, they kindly invited me.

We met at a restaurant just down the street from my house, The Pork Peddler. It is a very popular “home-style” type of eatery with a huge buffet of southern delectables. I had skipped lunch in eager anticipation.

I should never be allowed at an “all you can eat” buffet. I have no restraint. Oh, I eat the salad to be healthy. The salad with the huge chunks of real, sugar cured bacon, and the thick goopy salad dressing, and a little lettuce. Then there was the southern food: “cooked down” green beans (more bacon, or ham hocks or something yummy), buttermilk biscuits, corn (sweetened and buttered) collard greens and more bacon and lard for flavor, mashed potatoes with home style gravy, deep fried okra, ham, turkey, dressing, barbequed pork and ribs. And then seconds because I hadn’t noticed the corn on the first round and I needed more cranberry for my turkey and then I needed more turkey and dressing for the cranberry. And then, while I was on a roll: dessert. Bread pudding with thick vanilla sauce, coconut cream pie, pecan pie, cherry cobbler and some other stuff that I can’t remember because I was in a sugar and fat induced ketoacidotic stupor.

Then we loaded up and headed to club member Cathy’s house for more merriment and a gift exchange. They play “Dirty Santa” which isn’t what it sounds like – no thongs for Mrs. Claus, much to my prudish relief. Everyone who wants to play brings a wrapped gift, and then each gift giver picks a number out of a hat. The picker of number one picks a gift and opens it. Number two may either steal number one’s gift, or open another one. If number seven steals number two’s gift, then number two can steal anyone else’s or open a new one. It’s really fun!

There was one problem. I got this party confused with another party, and I thought we were supposed to bring gag gifts. Now, dear readers, I ask you to put yourself in my unenviable place for a moment. I’m the only new face at the party. I have eaten approximately four pounds, six ounces more fat-and-sugar-laden food than my stomach could hold in my wildest dreams. People are opening artfully gift-wrapped presents and they are plush dog beds, luscious blankets, and gorgeous leashes with agility motifs. The gag present I brought, wrapped in black tissue paper, is still under the tree. My stomach started to churn.

It was my turn. Beginner’s luck, I had drawn a high number, third from last. I had little beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, though I was chilled to the bone. Cold sweat. What to do? I couldn’t think. My stomach was making alarming acrobatic tumbles. My dufus present was still under the tree. Maybe it would never be opened and no one would ever know. I wanted to be part of the gang, to play along, oh my God my gut, I can’t think. In a panic, I did what the last three players had done; I stole the biggest, most cushy dog bed. Well, it did match my dining room décor perfectly. The moment I sat back down, I realized my mistake. I should have picked my own lame present and refused to open it. Oh rats and rats, why hadn’t I thought of that in time?

The last person just happened to be a very kind person who has been so supportive and helpful to me. Please, oh please take this cushy dog bed from me! Please don’t take my lame-o gag gift from under the tree. The last gift to choose, thus ending the game and leaving you, kind person who has helped me so much, with my lame-o stink-o gag gift. Oh my stomach!

But this is a kind, polite, earnest person. She would not steal someone else’s lovely gift. No, with a trusting, sweet smile, she takes my gift from under the tree. I wanted to crawl under my beautifully upholstered antique Queen Ann’s chair and hurl barbeque and bread pudding all over myself. Instead, I blurted out, “I was confused! I thought we were supposed to bring gag gifts!” and then, I started to laugh hysterically.

This person is so nice, so dear, that after she opened the candle which looks just like life sized dog poo, she said, “Oh!” and then when she opened the calendar which has full color images of dog poo on every page, she said, “Well, I need a calendar! Oh my. Dog poop? Oh my!”

I gave her back the gorgeous chenille throw which I had dirtily stolen from her (I left that part out, too shamed to include it). My dear, kind friends returned the plush bed which they had stolen from me and took the poop candle and calendar, presumably for the Kennel Club Christmas Party Fund Raising Auction tomorrow night.

I will be bidding on the poo items at the auction. If I have to donate my whole Christmas budget to the good of the Kennel Club, I will do that. But that dog poop calendar and that dog poop candle is coming home with me.

A Dog's Christmas

My dear canine friends, I've a story for you.
I beg you to listen: what I say is all true.
Your Humans are human and can't help their behavior,
They get all confused 'bout the birth of their Savior.


See, it's that time of the year, when the humans are hopping.
"No time for our walk today, gotta go shopping.
And tomorrow we have to put up all the lights.
You understand, don't you? You'll be all right?"

No time for your Frisbee, no time to throw balls.
Got to wrap all the boxes and deck all the halls.
"I'm sorry," they say as you're back in your crate,
"Office party tonight, we won't get home til late."

So you sit in your crate for a very long time.
You're warm and you're safe and they know you'll be fine.
But you're bored and you're worried and you don't understand
Why this time of the year things get all out of hand.

As if rushing around like a nut's not enough,
They keep filling the house up with all kinds of stuff.
There's holly and candles for all to see,
Then to prove they've gone starkers THEY BRING IN A TREE!!!

Yep, fellow dogs, they bring a pine tree right in
They put glass things on the branches and plug the lights in.
You think "Hey! Indoor plumbing!" But they say, "Get away!!"
"This is Our Special Tree for Our Special Day."

And don't think for a moment those tree balls are for you.
Though they bounce on the branches and call you, they do!
You haven't been chasing your own ball for weeks,
Or played tug o' war with your toy that goes "squeak."

As their Big Day approaches, their tempers grow short.
They're tired and stressed out and all out of sorts.
They've spent way too much money, whatever that is.
On gifts, decorations, and on something called "status."

See, they're only humans, and they always forget
It's not about presents or getting in debt.
The Birthday they're celebrating is all about Love
About gifts of the Spirit, sent from up above.

And that same great Father who sent them his Son
To teach all the humans to love every one,
Sends us to remind them, my good fellow hounds:
We exemplify love with positively no bounds.

So when their Big Day is ending, their presents unwrapped,
And they've eaten their feast and settled down for a nap,
That's the time when we dogs can show by example
That it's just about love, and can give them a sample.

They will feel something’s lacking, will see something's missing.
This is the time you can teach with your kissing.
They've ignored you for weeks with their rushing around,
Still you shower them with Love - the True Love of a Hound.

Whisper quiet, Dear Dogs, "It is not about Things!"
"It's not about buying new cars or rings."
The True Gift of Christmas is Love, sweet and pure.
And at Love, none can out do a dog, that’s for sure.

copyright 2006 Patience C Renzulli, not 2206! duh.

thank goodness the dogs love me anyway.