American Fez

Stay

My poor little dog, Lola, passed away two days before Christmas. I felt like kicking the Three Kings all the way back to the Orient from whence they came. Royal David's City could be demolished and turned into luxury condos for all I cared. King Herod was my kind of people. Dismantle the tree, turn off the twinkly lights, incinerate all the mistletoe and holly, as W. H. Auden might say if his friend died during the festive season. She was genetic mixture of pug, Boston terrier and min-schnauzer. Now she is just ash and memories and, I hope, a spirit of the air.

We nicknamed her Lopsided Lola because of one ear that stood straight up and one ear that flopped down and her paws that stuck out at odd angles. "I do hope your dog is called Scrappy," someone once said to me, as Lola gamboled around seeking connection with everyone in the immediate vicinity, her tail vibrating like a tuning fork. She loved everyone and everything. She was the sort of  happy-go-lucky mutt from a child's pop-up book who would befriend a butterfly, or a wildebeest. Size was not important to her. 

Lola suffered from congenital heart defects which caused several mini-strokes and made breathing difficult so, after much deliberation, we decided to put to her to sleep as her quality of life became increasingly compromised. The vet visited our house, performing the deadly operation while Lola sat in my lap. It was all very peaceful, as they say, and I guess euthanasia was all for the best. But how can you really know?

You see, I too am bedeviled by heart disease. So when recalling Lola's final moments, as I often do, I ask myself if I should want the plug pulled were my medical problems to kick a hole through my day to day existence. Or would I request a natural death over time with all the pain and indignity involved for however long it took? Lola didn't have a choice, of course, and I shall always feel conflicted about my role in that bleak procedure.

The alternative, at least according to science-fiction films, is to be a brain in a glass jar attached to electrodes, subsisting in a virtual realm of life, demanding my formaldehyde be changed every other day. I could live forever on a shelf somewhere and be reasonably content maybe. But frankly I'd prefer to be a spirit of the air, chasing Lola across the clouds. And I can sense here there now, tennis ball in drooling mouth, waiting for me to come and throw it for her once again. Stay, I tell her impatient ghost, stay. 

No Reindeer Required

Children staring with wonder at a toyshop window is an enduring image of Christmas, as are the gleaming wares on display within: the wooden train, the raggedy doll, the stuffed bear, the Ruritanian soldier, the multi-colored blocks with numbers and letters printed on them, and all the other timeless stocking-stuffers made by elfin hand in a North Pole workshop. But all these traditional Christmas presents have clearly been forgotten in the bottom of Santa's sack, left behind on the back of his sleigh, stuck in the middle of the chimney. No self-respecting kid wants to discover an old-fashioned rocking horse beneath the tree anymore, not when they can ride a three-speed, battery-powered inflatable dragon (suitable for ages 3-10) instead. The pop-up book of fairy tales is usurped by a spoken-word Hans Christian Andersen digital audio file.  In fact, rather than gathering in front of a toyshop window, the cherub-cheeked children of modern Christmas are more likely to be found dancing around a holly-trimmed rack of Amazon gift cards, staring with wonder at a glowing iPad screen offering a limitless choice of music, movies and games. And so, as Santa's grotto becomes an Internet shopping cart, it seems all toys have been exiled to the Island of Misfit Toys. Even the three-speed, battery-powered inflatable dragon must take its place beside the jack-in-the-box and the jigsaw puzzle in the pile of unwanted and obsolete childhood ephemera. I wish you a merry download and happy new landfill.

Bethlehem Down

Via San Gregorio Armeno in Napoli is a street practically devoted to selling Christmas ornaments. It's the Neapolitan alleyway equivalent of Santa's grotto, but staffed with wheeler-dealer Geppettos rather than cheerful elves. Perusing the vast array of hand-carved figurines on sale, you can choose to expand the historical scope of your family's nativity scene with such characters as Pulcinella and deceased soccer star Maradonna, neither of whom, as far as I'm aware, were present at the virgin birth. But then I'm one to talk. 

Over the years, I've collected so many different types of animal for my own nativity scene that it more resembles a first-century veterinary clinic than a lowly cattle shed. I have four plastic camels because presumably the three wise men brought a spare; enough sheep and goats to supply baby Jesus with a lifetime's supply of artisanal cheese; some assorted-sizes of ducks and geese; two fluffy buffalo; an army of free range-chickens; and, for some reason, a leopard. Since one of the shepherds got lost somewhere along the way I've always assumed the leopard simply ate him. No tooth-marked, mangled cadaver has ever been discovered as evidence, but I prefer that explanation to blaming my own carelessness.  

'Silent Night, Holy Night' disturbed by the deafening echo of feeding time at the zoo. That's how I imagine the nativity scene I've created might sound. Just the raucous quacking of ducks alone would drown-out the Herald Angels singing. No need to follow a star you Wise Men with your extra camel, because the clucking of all those crazy chickens and the bellowing buffalo will guide you to the manger much faster. In fact, the only 'silent' things here are the stealthy footsteps of the leopard stalking its unwary prey. You'd better watch out, as the song goes!