As you all are aware, I lead a madly glamorous life, dashing from one soignee event to the next. However, I always come home (if not always alone) to my wonderful dog, Bucky, my 13 pound miniature pinscher. And every year, that is my true Christmas gift.
Except for the year I stupidly gave him away. (Look it up.)
At night he curls up in his handmade artisanal dog bed. But come morning, I find Bucky snuggled under the embroidered down coverlet next to me, black nose buried in my silk nightgown. And firmly wedged between me and any male companion that might be there. Needless to say, the men come and go, but Bucky stays. And sits. And rolls over.
This Christmas, I opened a mountain of gifts. But once the paper was thrown into the fireplace (my personal favorite part of Christmas morning and a perennial family tradition), the gifts stacked in place, the uglier gifts regifted to the maid, there was, in the middle of the living room floor, among the mink coats and the diamond necklaces...
Bucky. Wagging his tail and wearing his new green and red Christmas sweater (my apologies for not having a picture). Shredding what was left of the Christmas wrappings. A happier dog you could not imagine, although I had sustained minor injuries getting the sweater on him. My heart filled with love, and I exclaimed aloud:
"Merry Christmas to all--especially me--and to all a good night!"
And I gathered my wiggling little darling into my arms and gave him a Christmas kiss!
One hopes the bandages come off in time for New Year's. It's just a minor flesh wound.
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog