The Good News and the Bad News

The good news is that the Golden Globes are on this weekend! Yay! I’m excited and moderately prepared. I’ll be ready, cocktail in hand, for the red carpet—arguably one of the highlights of the evening for me. The fashion is everything, but the show, this year hosted by Ricky Gervais, should be fun too. My husband and I have watched as many of the nominated shows that we’re going to. We haven’t viewed some contenders because they are either still in theaters or on channels we don’t subscribe to. Apple TV Plus anyone? The streaming service launched in November. The Morning Show, heavily nominated, can’t be seen elsewhere. Bummer and Boo! I love to root for shows and get excited for the winners, but alas, sometimes I can’t. George has put his foot down believing we are not properly organized and pay for too many services. Our technology should be better bundled. Whatever, George.

The somewhat bad news is that before the Golden Globes, we’ll be taking Christmas down. The house decorations. It’s an all-day task, and it’s sad when it leaves. But the tree is dry, dry, dry, and the branches are pitifully sagging from the weight of ornaments. And…. (this the worst part – I buried the lead) my dog has been eating them. Not the ones you would suspect made of wood or fabric either. No. My thug of a dog, Gemma, has been eating glass ornaments too.

Why is she trying to kill herself? It’s a full-time job trying to keep her alive. Even the vet is shaking his head at her crazy behavior. There is nothing she won’t eat. I’m alert now to the unmistakable and sickening sound of glass crunching as I run to her, yelling for George to help corral her. Now, don’t start with me that you think we’re making this a game for her. The first time, I approached with casual, heart pounding stealth, and calmly, reassuringly presented myself like it was no big deal, but she took off and ran, leaving a trail of glass behind, and thankfully, no bloody tongue. Since then, we’ve worked through the discipline options, but it’s been tough. She’s been hiding things, too. Sometimes we find stuff in odd places.

“Why don’t you take down the tree if it’s too dangerous for her, Annabelle?” a friend asked.

“Ahh, dur. It’s Christmas. She’s got to learn to manage this.”

My friend spied the other decorations lying on the kitchen table in various states of repair. Noses ready to be re-glued, felt hats reconstructed, and styrofoam ball-heads missing from toilet paper-tube elves. She squinted at the spotty glass nativity scene. “What’s up with that?”

“We’re down to two wise men and Mary.”

“She ate the baby Jesus?” my friend wide-eyed me.

I closed my eyes and shrugged. “She may have. We can’t find him.”

“How is she even alive?”

“We’re hoping that we’ll find stuff in the yard after the snow melts. She secrets stuff in her mouth and then rings the door chimes to be let outside. I can’t check her mouth twenty times a day. We’ve been through about fifty flour sack cloths, too. There are holes in all of them.”

My optimistic reasoning aside, it’s the bad, bad news, and I am a bit frightened. We’re giving this dog all the love and attention we can. I even move to the guestroom some nights, so I don’t have to kick her sweet patootie out of our bed when the television goes off. We love our baby girl and she loves us. Say a prayer and cross your fingers that 2020 brings some maturity to the beast. Believe me, we’re working on it.

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