Wednesday, December 25, 2013

The Twelve Dogs of Christmas


On the first day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, a fat cat in a fur tree…

It was time for the annual Christmas concert, and it wasn’t even Christmas yet. The Bombshell had whispered in my ear that it was time to announce the concert would start.

All the adults, exhausted from over-indulging in an Aussie seafood feast, were all too happy to oblige: as long as they didn’t have to get up from their chairs.

On the second day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, two chewed up slippers…

The Bombshell was the picture of seriousness. Standing straight and tall, book in her hands, she sang with the manner of an English Beefeater. No matter what was happening around her, she would continue to sing.

On the third day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, three French poodles…

This song was way too long for the Mop, who promptly took to the stage, grabbed a plastic rake as a microphone and began singing her own song. Not entirely sure what song it was.

'Shhhhh,' all the adults told her. 'You’ll get your turn in a moment'.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, four pointers pointing…

Breaking free from her Auntie’s grip, Baldy was determined to take her rightful place on stage. In the manner only an almost-two year old can muster, she began break-dancing, doing rolly-polies, dizzy-whizzies and egging the crowd on for cheers.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, five old hounds…

I watched the faces of the family, chuckles suppressed. We were all trying so hard to keep our attention on the Bombshell, who was pushing through despite the competition.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, six pooches playing…

The Mop was surreptitiously moving her chair forward. Her microphone had morphed into a trumpet, and occasionally she was waving it around over her head. It’s difficult to tell whether she was deliberately trying to hit Baldy who was flinging herself around, or whether it was just a happy coincidence.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, seven mutts a’dreaming…

Man this song was long. Why did there need to be twelve days of Christmas?

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, eight canines skating…

I had to admire the Bombshell’s fortitude. Almost no one was able to listen to her. Baldy kept popping up in front of her, raising her arms and shouting ‘ta da!’ at which point everyone (except the Bombshell) needed to yell ‘Ta da!’ back at her.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, nine fleabags fencing…

Anyone else would have given up by now, but I knew she was desperate to get to the eleventh day. We had read the book for the first time a few days earlier and it was every kid’s dream: to be able to talk about naughty things in front of adults and not get yelled at. She was going to soldier on.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, ten labs a’licking…

Besides, I had seen the script the Bombshell had neatly written out that morning. After she sang the worlds-longest and most annoying Christmas song, she planned on reading a story to everyone. There was no way she was given up her spot in the limelight.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, twelve dogs a digging…

‘Didn’t you forget one?’ I called out to the Bombshell. ‘Shhhh,’ everyone hissed at me, not wanting yet another verse.

The Bombshell paused and turned back a page. ‘Ah yes, thank you,’ she said.

She took a deep breath and another pause for effect.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, eleven puppies pooping…

‘Did she say pooping?’ my father-in-law whispered with a grin.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true dog sent to me, twelve dogs a digging…

Such applause, such acclaim. We were all so grateful she made it through, we were rapturous in our congratulations.

Baldy thought the applause was for her, jumping up and shouting ‘ta da!’

The Bombshell gave a neat bow, a satisfied smile on her face.

The Mop dragged her chair further forward and tried to grab at the Twelve Dogs of Christmas.

‘My turn,’ she wailed.

Nooooooooo.

 
Merry Christmas from Curly Mop, the Blonde Bombshell and Baldy Baby

 

 
* The Twelve Dogs of Christmas is written and illustrated by Kevin Whitlark

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