The white glistening snow is new to her every time. In the house it's the same, smells flowing like rivers, giggles from smiling children opening presents, and fires spitting, warming the atmosphere.
But out on the porch she sits looking up at the lit window above the door, wondering if anything will change, getting excited. At every muffled voice she makes another noise looking for attention.
The hair on her back bends as the icy air races round her. Mixed emotions from needing the warmth of inside, and being out in the cold, confuse her, and she once again begs to be loved. She paws the door in hope one last time and starts to turn away towards the dark cold night. Head down, and tail between her legs, she walks slowly.
Jumping at the slight sound of a hand on the doorknob, she spins around and is greeted by a wide smile : 'Come on then, Pups!'
Christmas. Yo, ho, ho, bottles of rum. Forced jollity and the seething undercurrent of resentment that accompanies the gravy, the candles, the infinite sage and onions. All the tensions we are allowed to release during the rest of the year are fastened down under the weight of a turkey stuffed with Ferrero Rocher and tied together with thick, itchy tinsel. On television we watch people in cartoon form, animals too, toast the season with sappy grins plastered on their rosy-cheeked faces. We are slumped in armchairs, pickled in sherry, sighing and belching at the screen. Our limited supply of goodwill and merriment is all used up.