Hey, those aren’t sugarplums!
Ryan Summerlin December 28, 2012
I’m changing our basset hound’s name from Freeta Goodhome to Lindsay Lohound. There’s good reason, imitation being sincere flattery.
Freeta is expensively good-looking, she has an ample figure, she’s sleek, and she backs it all up with an admirable rear end. On the other hand, she’s bad to the bone, bad to the breath-freshening chew bone.
Comparisons don’t stop there; the most impressive of all her comely parts is the mental horsepower of a pop-up toaster. Lindsay, excuse me, Freeta, would not stay out of our Christmas tree and, trust me, the gal is no partridge.
On any day of Christmas, our dumb dog gave to us, one chewed-up present, three carpet-smeared candy canes, five broken ornaments, two falling vases and one angel tumbling from the top of the tree. My wife and I discussed the matter and after discarding the idea of house-detention and a radio-ankle bracelet, we finally settled on a snowball-firing crossbow, figuring that ought to fix her little wagon.
Just kidding. What we did do was to agree that alternately one of us would give up their lives to guard the tree and keep the hound under surveillance 24/7 for the remaining 12 days of Christmas. Even so, many of the presents under the tree were taking on a decidedly lived-on look after several maulings by a conniving mutt that was beyond all hope of ever attaining the “nice list” no matter how many times Santa checked it.
Nonetheless, Christmas Day dawned and all was calm, all was bright. Bing Crosby roused our morning with the sound of roasting chestnuts and soon elves were scurrying about the kitchen preparing a delightful Christmas goose for the evening festivity. The day passed contentedly. That evening, one of the guests who had obviously been to our house before, brought a hostess gift of a huge chlorophyll-laced, breath-freshening, dog chew for Freeta, “Not to worry,” she said, “they really work! My dog has chewed on hers for months.” I leaped, of course, but it was like slow-motion.
She reached out the bone-shaped breath-freshener chew to Freeta who pounced like a hungry leopard on a baby bunny, swallowing it in two big gulps, the startled guest barely snatching her hand to safety. Despite all this, things might have still ended well if it hadn’t been for the goose.
It turns out there is a much better place to cook a goose than your kitchen. That place is somebody else’s kitchen. Anybody else’s kitchen. Roasting a goose is like broiling a bucket of fat with leg bones. To put things in seasonal terms:
When out of the oven there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my recliner to see what was the matter.
Away to the stove, I tore open the door,
To a volcanic blast of goose grease all over the floor.
Immediate reports from the scene were confusing and, in sorting things out while trying to salvage the bare dregs of the dinner party, no one kept an eye on the stupid dog. She’d gone after the spilled goose grease with a manic frenzy. So later, while you were dancing with sugarplums, I was up letting the over-indulgent Lindsay Lohound out every 20 minutes.
God, I love that dog.