George doesn’t do Christmas; the dog evidently does.
The food parcel left on George’s step by do-gooders has been strewn across the garden, only the cans unsullied by teeth marks.
There’s a label stuck to a tinsel garland round the mutt’s neck.
“Unwanted Christmas Gift.”
“Too right, buddy,” growls George, shutting the door.
He turns up the television to drown the whining outside, but at bedtime the dog is curled up on the now icy step.
“Git your ass in here then, but it’s just one night, understand?”
The dog understands; he can read humans.
That’s why he’s here.
See I can do happy! 🙂 Merry Christmas to all writing friends and colleagues. In whichever way you choose to celebrate, make it a special one. And thanks once again to Rochelle, our genial hostess, and the fairy on top of the Friday Fictioneers’ Christmas tree.