Twas the week before christmas

‘Twas the week before Christmas A Doggie Tail of a Christmas That Almost

Wasn’t

By: Mary and Ginny Edwards

(with apologies to Clement Moore)

‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the Edwards’ world, the dogs were stirring plus even a squirrel…

…Because no presents were wrapped, no stockings were hung. And the thought that St. Nicholas soon wouldn’t come made the dogs oh so glum.

“What do you think is wrong with our people? It’s simply not right here. Isn’t this the Christmas time of the year,” Skye yipped. “They seem so busy, they didn’t even yell at me the last time I jumped on the table. Maybe they’ve forgotten.”

“You think so!” whined Butters, visions of rich dinner scraps and Christmas cookie crumbs dancing in his head.

“No, not that!” barked Frankie. “I love all those Christmas treats that rain down from the counter!”

Skye sprang from the couch, an idea forming in her mind. Away to the phone, she flew like a flash, called up a Radio Cab and threw on a sash with Frankie grabbing some cash.

Watery sunlight on the breast of the fog-shrouded street gave a luster of midnight to the three canines below.

In no time the cab arrived, with a little old driver so lively and quick, they knew in a moment he’d get them there in a jiff.

More rapid than SUVs, his coursers he zipped. Dodging and zig-zagging amidst laid-back Portland drivers, he whistled and shouted and called them names: Now idiot, now slow-poke, now cellphone ignoramus, dash away, dash away, dash away all!

To the top of Skyline the trio flew. And as dogs when nature calls do, they stopped now and then to meet with obstacles sniff, pee and poo.

And then in a twinkling, the cabbie heard in the back the prancing and pawing of each doggie foot for they saw up ahead, the most beautiful sight – a forest of trees, ripe to be draped with bright Christmas lights.

And out of the cab they came with a bound, every hound dressed all in fur from the ears to their tushies.

Butters, a bundle of dog biscuits flung on his back, he looked like a St. Bernard, but just from the back.

Frankie, her eyes how they twinkled, so many things to sniff! Her cheeks were like roses, her tongue like a cherry.

Skye, her droll little muzzle was drawn up like a bow. And the fur on her face was a white as the snow. The husk of a ball should have been in her teeth, but, alas, no one to toss it into the heath.

They were like right jolly furry elves and they panted with excitement, in spite of themselves. They spoke not a word, but went straight to their search. Then all three at once turned with a jerk.

Just ahead. There it is, the perfect tree.

And laying a paw on it and giving a nod, Butters sprang into action. His pack gave a whistle, taking the tree that would save Christmas—yeah, this’ll.

They were heard to exclaim ere they drove back to Portland, Merry Christmas to all and to all a dog night!

Merry Christmas from our (crazy) dog house to yours!

Love,Brian, Mary, Jessica, Alex, Ginny, Frankie, Skye and Butters (and Scot and Amore)