Hundreds of dollars of gifts for each other and not a single one for me, the fucks!
Christmas has more or less come and gone. I say more or less because these two seem to make it go on and on and on by inviting people over after the day for gift exchanges, meals, snacks and whatnot.
On the day itself, though, it was as to be expected: Mook A got a Kindle from B, B got a ton of books and candy from A, and I sat there in heady anticipation and got sweet-fuck-all. Things were a little better when lunch rolled around and they took out this roasted turkey the size of a fat six-year-old. It was clear they weren't going to eat it at one sitting (though they did seem to be trying). It was then they managed to spread a bit of the Christmas spirit to little old me and I started to see nice, juicy clumps of fresh, hot turkey flying at me. They also made themselves sandwiches, from time to time the rest of the day, and if I was there I managed to get a little more turkey. So though my giftie-self wasn't satisfied, my stomach was. At one point things got even better. Mook B left the door of the bathroom open and before anyone had noticed I managed to grab myself a wonderful, largish and aromatic piece of soap. B suddenly saw me doing this and bellowed, "Drop it! Drop it!' and I did the only smart thing: I swallowed it whole.
Here's the thing with soap: it doesn't taste nearly as good as it smells and there was a rather unpleasant aftertaste and little burps and farts for the rest of the day which burnt both esophagus and arsehole.
On Boxing Day Sis and Bro came over with one of their kids and all I can say about that is that I didn't get any gifts—again!—and only a little turkey this time. But the next day Cate swung by and, finally, there were gifts for me! She opened with some cookies and then, when it was time for the afternoon walk, she brought out my big gift: a winter coat. It's warm, it's dry and I don't look too queer in it though it does hold my fur down so when I shake out to fluff up my coat I get no satisfaction. As we were walking that first time (me in the coat) we ran into Bengie and the two of us commiserated about our winter-wear. Mind, I didn't have the heart to tell him that he did look like a faggot in his blue, hand-knitted sweater and booties. I also ran into Ginger in her own little coat. She, however, had absolutely no Christmas spirit. She had just endured an eight hour car ride back from fuck-knows-where with the one-legged Ginger-lady and she was in a horrific mood. I wanted to play and she wanted to rip my dick off and would have damn near succeeded if her mistress hadn't intervened. "She's never liked overly-energetic dogs," Gingerlady said lamely to explain the little bitch's appalling behaviour. All I can say is that I'm going to think long and hard before I go snuffling that dog's cunt again.
Meanwhile, B has developed a cold and is hacking all over the house which means it is only a matter of time before A picks it up, it gathers steam in his poor, beaten body and he ends up in the hospital again with pneumonia or plague or some fucking thing only he is capable of catching. I mean, I don't wish it on him; it is nice to have the two of them here for walks and neither keeping track of who gave me a hunk of turkey when. It means that my life—despite the distinct lack of gifts—is one of eating, sleeping, walking, and eating and sleeping again.
I suppose, as Christmases go, it could be worse.
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