Dear Santa,
Hi, how are you? It’s me, Kirby the dog. I know you’re probably
busy making sure that the elves get all the toys made before your
big day and hoping the reindeer don’t mutiny and dump you out
somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, but I have some questions for
you.
Dear Santa,
Hi, how are you? It’s me, Kirby the dog. I know you’re probably busy making sure that the elves get all the toys made before your big day and hoping the reindeer don’t mutiny and dump you out somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, but I have some questions for you.
First, how did you get your great job? I mean, you only have to really work one day a year and let’s face facts, Santa. The reindeer have the more difficult job of hauling your cookie-stuffed butt around the entire planet in one night. Yeah, yeah, you have to go up and down the chimney, but seriously. You’re magical. How much effort does it really take?
And not to be rude, Santa but I’ve seen you in person. You might want to help the reindeer out and try eating fewer cookies and more carrots in the off-season. I’ve been a diet for a while now and I look like a super model. Sort of.
Oh, and Santa, how do you figure out when we’re naughty? I mean, I know you keep a list. And I’ve heard some scary rumors about the “Elf on the Shelf.” We even have one that lives in the downstairs bathroom. Please tell me it isn’t true that an elf sits on a shelf and watches everything then reports back to you each night. Seriously – what do those specially trained elves do in the off-season? Moonlight for the CIA? Don’t you think it’s weird for toy makers to turn into spies?
And just how good do you have to be to get on the good list? Look, I’m pretty sure I’m on that list. OK, fine. I had two accidents this year. And only one was on purpose. But compared to No-no Lulu, I’m a doggy saint. I don’t bark at people who come in the door. I don’t try to eat my leash when I go for a walk. And I don’t eat most of the bugs in the backyard, although I am fond of mice. So I must be on the good list.
But I’m worried that No-no Lulu must be on your naughty list. And please, don’t tell her that I’m worried. I’m sure you know this already, but last year, the minute the plums ripened on the plum tree, No-no Lulu head-butted it and ate all the plums. Santa, do you know what happens to a dog’s digestive system when she eats all the plums from a plum tree? It’s not pretty. The mom human was especially upset because the carpeting was fairly new. And beige. But how was No-no Lulu to know that would happen? She’s not that smart, Santa. It wasn’t her fault.
Speaking of “not that smart,” last summer I had a juicy mouse in my mouth and No-no Lulu wanted it. You can imagine what happened next. As an animal lover, I won’t disgust you with the details. Suffice to say, we ended up sharing until the mom human came outside, saw what we were doing and started freaking out and screaming at the top of her lungs for the teen human to clean us up.
Anyway, I’m sure that little incident didn’t put me on the naughty list. But I’m worried it may have tipped No-no Lulu from “sort of good” to full-on naughty.
And speaking of the list that I will never be on because I am a perfect dog, what happens to dogs on the naughty list? No-no Lulu still got a big old bone from you last year, along with a really ugly Christmas sweater. I got a beautiful sweater and a big bone. Oh, wait. Now I get it. Dogs on the naughty list get the ugly sweaters, right? Well, that’s OK, then. I was kind of worried that the stupid elf who lives in the downstairs bathroom would send No-no Lulu to the shelter or something. (And really, Santa, I won’t get into that, but it’s strange – why won’t he leave the bathroom?)
Speaking of shelters, Santa, do those dogs get anything for Christmas? I’m only asking because No-no Lulu and I are rescue dogs. And we know that the shelter is only charging $10 to adopt an animal during the holidays. So Santa, maybe you could give the elves a break and give some dogs or cats from the shelter.
Oh, and I’d like a pink sweater this year, Santa. With sparkles.
Love,
Kirby the dog
