And all through the house, not a creature was stirring except for... well, me. And Mom. Mom types whatever I dictate. I would do it myself but you have no clue how hard it is to type without thumbs. Okay, maybe you do, if you've been in an industrial accident or if you own tigers, but the public in general has no clue.

Where was I? Oh yeah. So it is actually the day before Christmas and there are a lot of people stirring here. But I'm confused about something. Tonight is the night that Santa, an obese guy with a beard like a Hell's Angel and an uncanny skill for breaking and entering, is supposed to come give us presents. Mommy and Daddy seem totally okay with this. A stranger is going to come into our home while we all sleep?

I'm getting this idea that I am not supposed to bark at him, or raise my hackles, or even growl a little. What about Eva? This is her first Christmas with us and maybe her first with a family. What if she bites Santa? Will I still get my presents? And how on earth is he getting in! The chimney leads to the boiler for goodness sake. Is he going to squeeze out of the radiator like steam?

Mom tells me I just need to have faith - the same way we have faith that the sun will come back every day and the daffodils will come up in spring. So, I will have faith in you, scary fat man. Please bring me a kitten.

One of my most favourite things in the world is bed-time.

Mommy and Daddy climb into bed and then I get up there and sometimes Eva does, too. If we are really lucky, even Adina will join us. Then, as we all jostle for the most comfortable position and the best placement for all of our limbs, we end up in a big dog pile (if it can be called such with humans and felines being a large component).

The dark, cold nights pass in warmth and comfort as the family rests before the challenges and suprises of another new day.

If anyone has a suggestion to make bed-time even better, you should leave me a comment!

I like to dig. Can I get an "oh yeah" from all my digging canine brethren?

Still, this post should act as a cautionary tale. My digging once got me into a difficult situation and I'll set aside my embarrassment to tell you about it, for your safety.

It was a beautiful fall. I remember it as though I was smelling it right now. Chipmunks and squirrels dashed about everywhere and the yard was a veritable treasure trove of upturned earth.

I dug a little hole nearby a cached walnut. It wasn't much of a hole. It was a mere six inches deep and maybe three-by-three wide. I found the walnut , of course, but the next time I came into the yard that depression in the dirt called to me. I couldn't help but scratch it a few inches deeper and a bit wider, too. And so it went over the course of that fragrant autumn. Dad conversationally griped at mom about the horrendous mess i was making of the yard. Mom shrugged and smiled.

The cold came in November and it became a chore to scratch at my furrow in the dirt. At about five feet in diameter and four feet deep I considered it a mission accomplished anyhow, and didn't trouble myself with further excavation.

Nigh on the end of December we got the largest snowfall that I could remember of my young life. Almost two feet of the white stuff fell within  a night and I was so excited to go out and play. I am a husky mix, what more can you expect?

I ran through the yard, nay, raced as though it was my job to bring serum to a dying Alaskan town, until a crater in the earth swallowed me like a fat guy swallows jelly donuts.

It was my hole! The snow had filled it and made the ground look as even as the great plains. I struggled to the surface gasping like a drowned man... only to hear my dear, sweet mother laughing in the warm kitchen.

I struggled to the back door, no longer enchanted with the snow and was greeted with the disparaging comment that my fall into the abyss was my own fault anyway. I should have bitten her.

My compatriots, I am only telling you this horrible story so that you will learn from my mistakes and remember where you have dug your holes.