Dear Santa, I’m sorry about the wiener dog

Last week, I made what I thought was an innocent, wholesome decision: I took my dog, Winnie, to get her Christmas photo taken with Santa at the local doggy day-care center.

I imagined a tasteful holiday keepsake. Maybe a gentle paw on Santa’s knee. A framed photo I could send to relatives to prove I’m a functional adult with festive priorities.

Instead, Winnie treated Santa like an obstacle course.

The moment she was placed on his lap, she clawed at his beard like it owed her money, launched herself vertically, and then, without hesitation, went full tongue directly into Santa’s nose. Not a lick. Not a graze. A committed, personal violation. Santa froze. The photographer gasped. Winnie achieved what can only be described as dominance.

I apologized profusely. 

Santa, a true professional, assured me this was “not the worst thing that’s happened this week,” which honestly raised more questions than it answered. Winnie strutted away as if she’d just saved Christmas. And in a strange way, she did.

Standing there, laughing so hard I cried, I realized that Christmas has always been a little chaotic for me, just with different characters.

When I was a kid growing up in Northern Michigan, Christmas morning was governed by one sacred rule: whoever woke Mom first got a spanking. This rule was delivered with such seriousness that we all believed it wholeheartedly. The funny thing is, I never got the spanking. Truthfully, I never saw or heard of anyone actually getting one. I’m fairly certain it was an elaborate bluff. But it worked. We moved through the house like tiny, pajama-clad ninjas.

I remember looking out the window at fresh snow, the kind that makes the world feel hushed and holy. The house smelled like a cinnamon candle we forgot to blow out the night before. I was so little I had to stand on my tippy toes to reach my mom’s coveted cookie jar, staring at the remains of Santa’s snack and the carrots left for his reindeer, irrefutable evidence of magic.

Now, I don’t live in Northern Michigan anymore. I live here, in Lincoln County, with a dog who assaults Santa and believes fish are personal adversaries.

And this feels like the right moment to say thank you.

To every reader who stuck with me this past year, through bluegrass cow-feeding mayhem, the great casino card caper, and the day Winnie and I went fishing and she stuck her tongue so far into a smallmouth bass’s mouth that the fish looked like it wanted to file a restraining order, thank you.

You read through my humbling moments, my frustrations, and my concerns over things that matter deeply, like legislation affecting how we handle wildland fires. You followed along as I reported from the field as your editor-in-camo, struggling with an M2, or somehow getting my dental insurance rearranged by a grenade launcher.

Through it all, we grew together.

I got to know many of you, and many of you got to know me, and Winnie. We are nothing but grateful to be new implants here in Lincoln County, welcomed with kindness, patience, and more laughter than we ever expected.

So from my dog, Winnie (who would like to apologize to Santa but absolutely will not) and from me, thank you. Here’s to another year of stories, field notes, mishaps, and moments worth sharing.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.