Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer
Mom was a Christmas freak.
I mean all in — hundreds of lights inside and out, two Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, nonstop holiday music, and relatives telling the same old stories year after year.
Bobo, our loyal ¾ Collie, ¼ German Shepherd, would roam the house proudly with mistletoe hanging from his collar.
Back then, nobody told us chocolate was like poison to dogs. Guess it didn’t matter to Bobo. He probably scarfed down a thousand chocolate Santas, Easter eggs, and Halloween candies over the years — and lived to be over 100 in dog years.
Mom was also a genius when it came to solving the holiday tug-of-war between kids and in-laws. You know the drill: “This year we’re going to my house. Next year is your house.”
Her solution? She hosted full Christmas celebrations on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Same food, same drinks, same music and gifts.
If the in-laws claimed Christmas Eve, no problem — you just came to our place Christmas Day. And if they didn’t want either day? Might be time to fold them back into the community.
Now, any kind of formality was rare in our family — except for Christmas dinners.
That’s when we dressed to impress: gray slacks, sport coats, winter sweaters, holiday dresses. We’d sip cocktails and nibble hors d’oeuvres in the living room by the roaring fireplace, usually accompanied by a niece or nephew playing carols on the piano after eight years of forced lessons.
Then we’d move into the dining room for Mom’s traditional beef stroganoff.
This tradition ran like clockwork — uneventful for 40 straight years — until Elton came along.
Elton John Rocket Man was my Bouvier des Flandres — a big, shaggy Belgian sheepdog who looked like a cuddly bear.
The grandkids loved him. They begged, “Can you bring Elton to Christmas dinner?”
My wife (at the time) shot that idea down fast.
“Absolutely not. He will screw something up, and it will be my fault.”
I promised I would keep him downstairs with the kids. No risk, no chaos. She growled, “Fine,” and off we went.
Things went fine at first. Elton was in the basement, the relatives rolled in, and even Mrs. C — a 98-year-old great-aunt twice removed — made it to her cozy chair next to the fireplace.
That chair was surrounded by stockings, a nativity scene, and a decorated Styrofoam reindeer that had seen better years.
Then… it happened. Elton slithered out of the basement like a Christmas ninja, tiptoed down the hall, and peeked into the living room. His eyes locked onto the reindeer. And in a flash, it was game on.
He bolted behind the sofa, slid behind Mrs. C, and mounted the reindeer like he’d been saving up all year for this moment.
Mrs. C tapped her cane and muttered, “I think we have a problem over here.”
It took two of us to drag Elton off that poor reindeer.
My wife? She practically shot herself through the thermal-pane windows. “We’re going home. Now.”
I pleaded, “Just let’s get through dinner.”
I stashed Elton back in the basement and tossed the reindeer into the coat closet. The crisis seemed contained.
Dinner came and went, and folks were bundling up to leave. Elton was in the foyer as we said our goodbyes. Mrs. C, walker in hand, made her way toward the coat closet.
And that’s when disaster struck again. Someone opened the closet.
Elton spotted the reindeer. In a blur, he charged — bowling over poor Mrs. C like a linebacker on a mission. The reindeer didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Mrs. C once again.
Again it took a team effort to separate the dog from decor.
My family howled with laughter.
My wife? Not so much.
On the way home, I got the speech. You know the one.
Eventually — like all challenging in-laws — she was folded back into the community.
You Cant Make this stuff up 