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Something's fishy

I kept my eyes peeled all night long and never did see Blitzen and his homies, but then FarmWife showed me this photo:



Apparently, three carrots and two celery sticks materialized, along with a lot of candy canes, on our Christmas tree last night. They were labeled "Missy", "B.G.", "Fenway Bartholomule", "Harriet", and "B".  We ate them with our breakfast (and they were delicious).

I demanded to know whether the house pets had awoken to any edible ornaments, but FarmWife laughed at me. "Santa probably hand delivered theirs," she laughed, "when he was here visiting with them in the night." They ate their biscuits, in other words, straight from the source.

I am 18 now, as of last October, and that is old enough to begin to question these things. Santa is real—don't get me wrong! I just doubt that he would ever condescend to touch his white fur glove against something as yucky as a Milkbone or a Beggin' Strip. The man has been alive for hundreds of years, and I know this from experience: with age comes wisdom, with wisdom comes prudence, and with prudence comes a reluctance to touch things that stink of rotting meat. I believe, I mean to say, that the housepets got no treats.

Clover—I will make it up to you. I will drop from my mouth a sliver of carrot, and you shall have it for your own.

Ears to you (and good cheer, too!)

Fenway Bartholomule



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