I was dusting the other day and found this lying on the printer:
You’ve probably deduced that parts of this post are fictional. The part about me dusting, for instance. Congratulations, Sherlock, well done! Now we can move on to more perplexing mysteries, like where Tailor learned to type. And in outline form, no less! Do you think he knows where I keep the envelopes and stamps? Can he reach the flag on the mailbox? What will happen when he finds out the truth about Santa? And discovers that my credit cards are the key to the wonderful world of Amazon.com? What if he grows up to be a lawyer? Like so many pet parents, I worry. But for today, I’m content to let him revel in the magic of Christmas. I’ll hug him tight for remembering Ginger and Callie in his letter and vouch that he’s a good boy if the North Pole should call me requesting verification. Of course, Santa will bring him everything he asked for, except maybe the heated indoor pool… and that giant stick from the back yard, the one he knows he isn’t allowed to bring in the house. Maybe I’ll slip a Roomba under the tree… just because he was cheeky enough to go behind my back and ask Santa Claus for the stick! After he and Roomba are through chasing each other, we’ll take turns bobbing for chicken, straight from the bucket, then flop down in front of the TV. From my cozy corner seat, I’ll count my blessings, beginning with the one wielding the remote, the one sprawled across my lap, the one meowing to go outside, and the one snoring from the depths of an extra-crispy food coma. If I start crying, you can blame it on Hallmark; those sappy holiday movies get me every time!
Wishing you a blessed season filled with laughter, love, and memories.
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