I hate Christmas and all its trimmings. Mostly I hate the way my people toss my basket out the corner to make way for the tree.
It’s a whirlwind of chaos – tinsel flung everywhere, lights twinkling too bright, and the tree wobbling.
Breakfast is late and my walk – always at eight sharp – is postponed until the unwrapping racket finally dies down. I pace at the door, tail low, desperate to do my business.
There are needles everywhere, getting into my paws. It’s hard to walk with a one-inch thorn digging into your flesh.
Guests arrived in trickles: tall strangers in woolly jumpers, children squealing as they dart across my makeshift bed. Each hug and ‘hello, boy!’ tugs me away from my favourite dozing corner. Then the indignity: some joker ties a festive bandana around my neck.
Then there’s the smell. All that meat: turkey, ham, lamb. They leave great plates of it out and when, naturally because I’m a dog, I have a sniff and a little taste, someone pushes my snout away. When I snarl at them they take my collar and put me in the garden. Later, someone lets me back in and they all offer me treats from their dinner plates.
When everyone finally settles around the telly, I slink into a corner. The carpet’s littered with torn paper ribbons, the air thick with cinnamon and pine. I close my eyes against the glare of fairy lights and pray for the silence that Christmas stole from me.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 