The Night Before Christmas

(With apologies to Clement Clark Moore)

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Snoring was heard from each eggnog souse.
The stockings were hung on nails way up high,
Far above furballs who think they can fly.

The cats had all snuggled down in my bed,
Where visions of ornaments danced in their heads.
Left with six inches of mattress, onto it I leap,
With the mistaken idea that I was going to sleep.

Ten seconds later a bellowing moose
Caused a scattering of cats as all Hell broke loose.
I dashed for the door, being somewhat bold,
Tripped over Grady and knocked myself cold.

It was like a convention, out there on the lawn,
Three rabbits, a racoon, two does and a fawn.
The volume of laughing, rose and then sunk
Santa and crew had run over the skunk.

Things had got ugly, and Santa he swore,
This would be his last trip to our house, he’d come back no more.
The wee creatures’ eyes grew with each new term they heard ,
Rudolph was texting his union steward.

The reindeer argued and pointed at Vixen,
Who blushed and admitted she was pregnant by Blitzen.
Santa snarled at the team and up they all flew
I think it might have been the threat of a stew.

With a mighty leap, through the sky they were rushing,
To toots that showed someone’s intestines need flushing.
The sled and the toys, and the fat gentleman too,
Arrived on the roof to applause from the zoo.

The cats were all clamoring, anticipating some nip,
As I limped back inside, thinking of a new hip.
“Wait just a minute!” Santa growled an aside,
“Who put the damn chimney on the outside?”

He slid down the bricks, filling the night,
With an odeur that said he might have worn black and white.
The aroma followed him in through the door,
Where he didn’t see the hairball on the floor.

He flew into the air, his feet kicking and wiggling,
I’d type what he said if I could only stop giggling.
His acrobatics were surely the high point of the day,
And seldom seen outside Cirque du Soleil.

He rose with a groan and dragged open the sack,
With a mutter about how he’d never come back.
Stockings were stuffed, and he was this close to done,
When Grady barrelled into him at a full run.

To say he went ass over tea kettle would be quite understated,
And the words that he said were certainly X-rated.
He was giving the poor dog an angry ‘what-for’
As Grady slid between his legs and began to explore.

Santa’s armpits were empty, his bellybutton likewise,
Ditto his ears, his butt and his thighs.
Up one down the other side of Santa he races,
Grady was looking for food in all the wrong places.

“Let me out of here!” Santa screamed, out the door in good time,
He whipped up the reindeer who turned on a dime.
And we heard him exclaim as he flew towards Dover,
“You’ll see me back here when this damn place freezes over!”

On behalf of Grady, I would like to wish our wonderful friends and followers, a Merry Christmas, and a joyous New Year, and share with you some exciting news. Grady’s blog has been nominated in two categories of the Dog Writer’s Association Awards, one for dog blog, and one in the humour category, for the article “Revenge is Sweet”. No matter the outcome, we are honoured by the nominations and grateful to the two rescues without whom there would be no Grady and no blog. God Bless us all, every one.

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The Conspiracy

Is there really life on Mars as evidenced by the 1976 photos showing a sphinx, a pyramid and a Neanderthal Kardashian? Did Shakespeare’s works actually pay for the eggs to go with Francis’ bacon? These mysteries are among the world’s great conspiracies, but none of them can hold a candle to the underworld undermining of authority that is going on right here.

It started with the Case of the Vanishing Kaiser Rolls. The ones that were carefully pushed to the back of the top of the microwave where even a long-bodied, long-legged dog can’t reach. Thanks to some top-notch detective work, and needing to tie my shoe, the lost were found. Kind of. It was more a case of the “remains”, which consisted of part of the plastic bag and copious crumbs underneath the dining room table.

The first thing armchair detectives should know, is that the table is up against the kitchen counter that divides these two miniscule areas of the house, and the microwave is against the wall on the end of the counter. Ergo, there is no way the bag could have fallen onto the floor. Fortunately, due to past transgressions, it was pretty clear who was responsible for the disappearance. What wasn’t clear was how he got hold of them. It was clear however, that a dietary change was in order, as plastic has very little nutritional value.

Skip forward several days, and the happenstance that my footsteps were relatively quiet, and another theft was in progress. Walla, as the French say. The thief is caught. Or at least identified, since his four feet are much faster than my two, and he vanished quicker than the rolls.

The evidence:

The perpetrator:

The package had been chewed through by none other than the new kid on the block, Leandro. But it still did not explain how Grady joined in the feast. That revelation came the next day when once more, I forgot to put the rolls inside the microwave, and they were pillaged again. I came around the corner just in time to find Leandro dragging the bag (which had already been chewed) across the counter and dropping it on the floor, right in front of Grady. The plundering continued amidst language not fit for a blog of this high calibre.

Now, the question was: how to put a stop to this? That turned out not to be as simple as putting the rolls away. Because first, I forget to do that. Frequently. And Leandro’s tastes are not limited to rolls. He also enjoys crackers, cake, dried fruit, and basically anything edible that is not inside a locked vault. Grady also enjoys these things. Quite often, thanks to Leandro.

The accomplice/beneficiary of the crime:





I’m innocent Your Honour, and I have witnesses!

One thing Leandro does not appear to appreciate, is hard dog biscuits. That doesn’t mean he leaves them where they are found. Far from it. To date, he has been caught on my desk with a paw on the shelf overhead, pushing treats off onto the floor. Then on the kitchen table, where he showed himself a dab hand/paw at shoving biscuits across the smooth surface and into the gaping jaws of Grady. It’s a shame there are no Cat Olympics. He’d have the curling gold medal in the bag.

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