Why I like girl dogs

After slaughtering and hog-tying the Christmas tree on Saturday, we stuck it in a barrell of water until we had blasted a spot in the house in which it could stand. Sunday, we brought the tree into the house, lopped off another section of trunk and plunked it into a stand full of water. Happy tree.

Katherine proceeded to festoon it with Winnie-the-Pooh ornaments and was truly excited about the whole deal. Thinking that we should dog-test tree before coating it with glass baubles, we brought Moss into the fray. He took a look at it, sniffed a bit and then basically ignored it. “Bravo!” we told ourselves! “He’s not going to climb it!”

We let the dogs bounce around a bit and they seemed okay about the whole deal. Wikket and Ferg know about trees and were rather nonplussed at the monstrousity in the corner. After his repeated ignoring of the intruder, we figured that Moss was cool with everything.

To prove us wrong, after lulling us into a sense of complacency, he walked up the innocent everygreen, lifted his leg and annointed it.

Which is why I found myself spritzing and rinsing a fir tree in my living room this morning and atomising it with doggy de-scenter.

Anyone who has ever had to clean a Christmas tree after it encountered a male dog will understand the lack of Christmas cheer in my heart at that time.

I love my Mossy boy, but girl dogs are easier.

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