A Canine Christmas List

Dear Santa,
Hello! Zeus the magnificent yellow guidedog here. I know, I know, I’m technically an adult now, and I ought to have stopped believing in you a few months ago, but it’s important to keep the magic alive. Humans don’t appreciate that.

Truthfully though, I need a favor, and I thought seriously about bypassing you and pleading my case with the man upstairs because it’s such a rush order, being Christmas Eve and all, but since it’s his Birthday tomorrow, I figure he deserves a weekend off to have a few martinis and forget about trying to save the world. It must be tough being Jesus.

So here’s the deal, Santa. I know it’s a bit of a rush job, but I’d really love some beef wellington for Christmas. I was going to ask for a deer antler, but I realize that’s a sensitive request, and Rudolph and I are great pals, so I wouldn’t want to be on the outs with him because he’s promised to hook me up with a glow-in-the-dark navigation nose just like his, which will be useful for guiding mom in the dark.

Anywags, Santa, I know I haven’t been very nice this year, swallowing foreign non-digestible objects and such, but I was only a puppy at the time, and puppies have a hard time distinguishing eatable from non-eatable substances. I really didn’t think it was necessary for mom to leave me in the hands of strangers who proceeded to do something called an endoscopy—which is really just shoving a camera down my esophagus, but they call it an endoscopy because giving it a fancy name means they can charge $1200 for it. Then when they determined that whatever foreign object I ingested was too large to retrieve with the Edward Scissor hands camera-thing, they actually cut my stomach open! They called it surgery, but again, the harder it is to pronounce, the more money you can charge for it. I’ve got these crazy humans’ numbers. I felt like the wolf in Little Red Riding-hood, except for the fact that I don’t eat small children, though admittedly that was a fairly large object they pulled out of my stomach. Mom still doesn’t know what it is, and I’m not going to tell her, but between you and me, Santa, rumor has it she needs a new pair of running shoes. I can’t tell you how I know this. It’s classified information, but I know she hasn’t been able to find them recently.

Anywags, after two days, Mom finally came to pick me up from the hospital, and Santa, let me tell you, if that was Mom’s idea of sending me to a hotel for all the hard work I’ve done this year, I demand a refund. There were pointy objects, and strange rough hands that didn’t feel at all like Mom’s. If I thought my troubles were at an end when I got home, I was sadly mistaken. Mom proceeded to fit something over my head called an e-collar, which is supposed to stop me licking my stitches. It looks a bit like a lampshade, and Mom’s taken to calling me lampshade head. As if that weren’t humiliating enough, she and Grandma kept trying to photograph me in my misery, because they think I look cute.

Santa, please! I know it’s down to the wire, but give a guy a break. I hope you haven’t forgotten that car I saved Mom from a few months ago—doesn’t that niceness counteract the naughtiness? If you can’t pull off the beef wellington, can you at least send a message to amnesty international? Because I’m being tortured.

Merry Christmas!
Yours respectfully,
Zeus, the magnificent yellow guidedog

P.S: I’d like to register my astonishment at the inequality of refreshment being left for you and your team of magical reindeer; you get the cookies, and quite frankly, I don’t know how you can make it down the chimney with all that extra weight, and all Rudolph gets is a friggin carrot stick? That’s just wrong, man. When Mrs. Clause is in the kitchen wippin’ up my beef wellington, have her make up one for Rudolph too. After all, if not for him to guide your sleigh, you’d be blinder than my mom.

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