by Richard
So we had plans for the most perfect Christmas tree in existence. I mean, we had enough ornaments to decorate the world tree Yggdrasil and have some left over, maybe. All right. Probably not that many ornaments, but it sure isn’t a small number.
Anyway. We had the tree. We had the uber-stand, designed to prevent the . . . incidents . . . that have befallen our family for the last two years. Lord knows we don’t need any more trees hitting the ground, especially after they’ve been decorated. Dude, that is not a scene I want repeated.
So we had plans for this tree. We got a tree large enough that it wasn’t dwarfed by the oh-so-very-1980s great room, with two-story ceilings, and large enough that we had to rent a storage locker for the furniture for which we no longer have room. No, I haven’t heard of conspicuous consumption. What is that? Never mind. I don’t want to know.
The tree was up. The ornaments were attached. All was right with the world. Until our one tiny flaw was exposed.
His name was Buzz, the newest addition to the Jones family, a Labrador/pit bull mix we rescued from the pound in August. Buzz has a. . . healthy . . . interest in balls of all kinds. Sort of like the dogs in Up have for squirrels. See ball. Chase ball. Eat ball. Repeat. I think you can see where this is headed. Why we didn’t is a question for the ages.
When we had all the ornaments up and were sitting back and basking in the glow of a job well done, that’s when Buzz decided he had to see what all the fuss was about. Later on I figured out what happened. While we saw a heavily decorated Christmas tree, on which we’d done a lot of work, Buzz saw a cornucopia of shiny, round bits just begging to be batted with front paws, clenched between sharp teeth and just generally messed with.
Not really a recipe for calm, reasoned behavior.
My wife, known to many as She Who Must Not Be Trifled With, and I were in the kitchen, just puttering around. (I was showing her where the actual cooking took place. She was curious. It’d been so long since she’d done any actual cooking.) That’s when we heard the rapid series of plinks, chomps and thuds, followed by a resounding smash. We quickly ran to the great room and saw Buzz lying contentedly at the foot of the (thank goodness) still-standing tree and chewing on a wooden ornament he’d just brought down (along with a shower of less-durable ornaments).
So, fortunately, we didn’t kill the poor dog, but it was a near thing.
Rather than throwing the dog back, we decided instead to torture him. We’ve got him in a crate that faces the tree so he can always see it, but he can’t get to it. No, not really. We are, though, letting him out on a limited, supervised basis until he learns not to eat the ornaments. He still goes outside, but his movement inside is severely restricted.
He’s actually doing a good job of straightening out. I’ve found him casting forlorn glances at the stocking with Buzz written on it and having over the fireplace. I think he’s worried about getting on Santa’s bad side. Good. I’ll take that.
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