Canine Christmas by Jeffrey Marks (Ed)

Author:Jeffrey Marks (Ed)
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2008-12-10T07:00:00+00:00

Psycho Santa's Got a Brand-New Bag

Deborah Adams

Macavity Award–winning short story writer DEBORAH ADAMS agreed to a blind date with a man (who later became her husband) only because he had a Saint Bernard. She currently plays mom to Clifford, a shaggy black stray who wandered into her yard and forgot to leave; Data, an abused mongrel who was abandoned near the Adamses' home in Waverly, Tennessee; and an assortment of cats and tropical fish. One of her short stories, “Building Herbert,” appears in the earlier Canine Crimes anthology.

Santa choke-slammed me to the mat and pinned me for a three count while Jericho chewed on my toes. Just another day at the Pole.

“I'll give you one more chance, Grady Elf!” the champ shouted. He grabbed my collar, hauled me to my feet, then prepared to execute a flying backflip off the top rope.

Unreasonable as it sounds, I went along with this daily ritual. You see, we've never unionized, and in this hardcore What You See Is What You Get world, there are damned few job opportunities for elves.

“Whatever you say, Boss,” I agreed. “Just let me give Jericho his kibble first.” I scooped the puppy into my arms and let him lick my face, reasonably certain that Santa wouldn't attack me and chance hurting Jericho.

The Big Guy was about to object when suddenly out on the lawn there arose such a clatter … no, wait. That's a different story. This time the distraction was caused by the arrival at ringside of an officious young elf named Hemmit.

“There's a breakdown on line three,” Hemmit announced with a superior smile. “Would Mr. Claus care to have a look?”

Santa pulled his fire-engine red spandex tights over a belly that remained ample in spite of his rigorous training. “Are you completely helpless?” he screamed at Hemmit. “Can't you handle a little thing like that without interrupting my match? I'm defending my title here! Take some responsibility, why don'tcha?”

This was strategically unwise. I knew it. Hemmit knew it. Even Jericho started to squirm and whine. I tried to provide damage control. “Santa, perhaps you—”

“Always trying to undermine my authority, aren't you?” The once jolly old elf pounded the air with his fists and jumped up and down, rattling the loose boards under the mat. His face turned bright red, making a Christmasy contrast to the snow-white hair and beard. “I! Won't! Stand! For! It!”

Santa sputtered and spewed, continuing the sort of incoherent tirade that we were growing accustomed to at the Pole. Most of the elves in the audience watched nervously, prepared to dodge flying chairs if necessary. Hemmit, though, grinned with delight, knowing his side had scored another victory.

From somewhere in the crowd I heard an elf whisper, “The old guy's a psycho. The sooner he's gone, the better for us.”

I sighed. Jericho buried his muzzle under my arm. Pro-Santa elves hung their heads; the others smacked their lips, tasting the sweet end to a vicious rivalry between Santa and Hemmit. Things did not look good for old Claus, or for those of us who tried in vain to defend his sanity and his job.

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