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This became a holiday tradition a number of years ago. I have moved to a different platform, but want to keep this tradition alive.

Since I first wrote this, we have lost first Bernie, and this past summer, Jada. This is a way I keep their memories.

Happy Christmas to all! 

My human, Michael is off this weekend, so it is up to me, Bill, to write his column.
Since this is the weekend before Christmas, I have decided that my two brothers will help me in reciting the Night Before Christmas.

So, sit back as me, Bernie and Roswell entertain as only we can.

Bill

Bill, Bernie, and Roswell had the living room to themselves. They watched as the coloured Christmas lights blinked on and off. Bill yawned and looked at his two brothers who were occupying the chairs on the other side of the room.

“My human,” he always referred to Michael that way, after all, to Bill, Michael was his. He only shared him with his brothers, his mother, Jada, and Franchesca.

My human has asked me to read you the Christmas bedtime story of, “The Night Before Christmas. It is about Santa Claus”
Roswell’s and Bernies’s ears perked up and they looked at their brother. It sounded like fun, after all, they knew that every year they got special tasty treats from Santa, so they waited for him to begin.

Bill dragged an older-looking book from under the couch, where he had stashed it next to his growing collection of silverware and other odds and ends he thought were shiny.

Using his snout to push open the book, he cleared his throat to begin.

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

Bernie looked confused, he asked, “What’re a twas?”

Bill shrugged, “I think it is a fancy was, anyway:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

Bernie stared carefully at the walls, trying to hear the scurring of little feet. He asked, “We have mice?”

Bill sighed, “No, in the story:

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

Bernie squinted his eyes, “Who is Saint Nicholas? You said this was about Santa Claus!”

Roswell looked up, “Oh, Saint Nicholas is Santa’s street name. That’s what Google told me. So he can avoid being tracked by the illuminatti.”

Bill or Bernie wasn’t sure if that was the right answer, but he did say it was on the interwebs so it must be true.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,

Bernie looked perplexed. He would admit that since mealtime and running defending the house against terrorist invaders was his favourite thing, he was not aware of too many other things. However, this had him confused.

“We sleep in comfy chairs, not beds. What is a ‘sugar plum? You don’t have a cap.”
Roswell looked nervous, “Be afraid, sugar plums in your dreams are signs the NSA is watching.”

Bill wasn’t sure if that was right, but he had to go on. 

“In the story,” he stated.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

Bernie bounded from his recliner barking wildly as he headed for the window,

“INTRUDER ALERT! EVERYONE BE CALM!!!”

Bill tried desperately to read on over the sound of his brother barking loudly.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

Bernie was confused again. Bill had said a sleigh with reindeer had invaded. Yet he saw nothing. Then again, he also had only seen snow once and thought it was tasty.

He walked back to his recliner and with a thud, jumped into it and curled up. He was not liking this story. It was not good for his nerves.

Bill cleared his throat and tried to continue,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; “Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

Roswell snorted, “That’s the names given we are told they have. Have we ever seen a reindeer? Do you think that they would have code name style names? It is a military-style cover name. Those are handles.”

Bill looked, “What are you talking about?”

But Bill did not give Roswell a chance to answer, he knew that it would take far more than the rest of the evening. So he read quickly.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

Bill stopped reading, he was missing a page from the story. He knew it was there when he found the book and yanked it off the shelf. Then he remembered that he had gotten hungry and ate it. He hoped his humans wouldn’t notice.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

Bernie and Roswell leapt off their chairs and ran to their stockings that were tacked on the wall. Even Roswell jumping up and trying to grab the bottom of his stocking did not allow him to pull it down to investigate. He looked angry, muttered something about conspiracies, and sauntered back to his chair.

Bill cocked his head in confusion and decided to finish his narrative.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

This past year has been a wonderful year of writing articles to entertain and inform. To all my readers, I wish you a joyous holiday and prosperous New Year.

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This being the week of Thanksgiving, I figured that I would let Roswell tell the readers at home his story of the first Nomsgiving.

A little background, we at my house jokingly refer to it as Nomsgiving because we take portions of our Thanksgiving Dinner which are safe for dogs, and spruce up their dinner.

It is weird, but you can almost swear they know it is Nomsgiving as they are overly excited all day.

And without further ado, dog historian Roswell Cosmos Cole.

Roswell here, I want to tell you the story of the first Nomsgiving.

It dates back to the first unsuccessful English Bulldog Revolt of 1617. Not to confuse it with the Poodle Revolt of 1789 which was horrific as ever since, poodles have been forced to suffer their humiliating haircuts as a sign of punishment.

A sect of the brave doggies who had fought for more treats and an end to sleeping on the floor (after all, why do only hoomans get to sleep on comfy beds?), had heard of these people called Pilgrims who were on their way to the “New World.”

Perhaps, they mused, this could be the beginnings of a new life. Their leader, a handsome Bulldog by the name of Miles Buttons, was able to secure passage on the ship called the Mayflower.”

So the brave pack of doggies set forth to cross the big blue wet thing in search for a new life.

For a month or more they suffered on the boat. Dog treats ran out. Doggies were in danger of falling overboard when using the bathroom. This after they were banned from going on the big tree with the big white leaves that billowed in the wind.

Finally they reached their destination. A cloudy land with rocks and trees.

Trees? The doggies were about to realize a dream of years. A tree for every dog.

Was this the land they had been told about in the book of Dogs-Mosses? Where treat-os grow on trees and there is a hooman to rub every belly?

They were excited. But a harsh year was ahead of them.

They had met some doggies who called themselves wolves who took them kindly under their wings and showed them how to chase the demons called squirrels and how to dig for the tasty roots and grass. Even better, they were taught by the wolves how to properly beg at the table to get tasty hooman noms.

It was a glorious time.

And the next winter, as their hoomans invited the First Nations people in a celebration and “thanksgiving”, the doggies invited their wolf friends and together they begged for scraps from the table.

Since there was plenty they were granted tasty noms and belly rubs.

And we doggies celebrate it every year.

So if your doogie is begging for noms, then give it to them, they are merely keeping the Nomsgiving Tradition alive.

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I sometimes receive Facebook messages about my column. More accurately, I get messages about my dogs. They are more popular than I am.

Well, it was no surprise when I got a message asking how my dogs were.

Apparently, I hadn’t written about them lately and they were curious.

So, I decided to tell the story of Roswell and the remote-control car

Roswell loves interaction in his playing. He likes to attack the broom or the mop. If we move around furniture, you can bet he dives on it and attacks

It’s cute to watch. Not so cute when you are trying to mop or sweep.

So, this past weekend, I saw a $10 remote control car for sale while shopping at Walmart. I was cutting through toys to make my way to Hardware from Garden Center and there it was.

It kind of stuck out. Or as I heard in a movie once… It was just meant to happen

We had talked about buying an RC car just to see Roswell’s reaction but wasn’t sure about spending a large sum on something that he might not show interest in.

Let’s be honest, I wanted one even if Roswell didn’t.

So, I got home and put in the batteries. I took Roswell outside and started her up.

Roswell doesn’t just run down the steps like my other dogs. He leaps like a parajumper would out of an airplane and then starts running the second his paws touch the ground.

From there it’s a dead sprint to the far fence before running back.

This time, halfway there I started the car.

Roswell stopped mid-run, changed direction, and headed for the moving car.

He stopped and stared at it as it moved.

Then he pounced.

As he nipped, I would move the car in other directions.

He would adjust and nip again at the wheels.

He was in heaven.

But it was just a $10 toy car. Big wheels and about the size of my hand. And probably weighed about 2 pounds at best.

He grabbed one of the wheels just right and pulling back, he flung the car about 15 feet.

He ran after the car and did it again.

And a third time before I got the car from him.

I set it on a shelf, and we went in, but I fear I created a monster.

This morning, I opened the door to let him out. He raced for the car, was just able to pull it off the shelf and fling it.

He is now looking at me and the remote as if to say…

The car won’t drive itself.

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