A Very Merry Guinea Dog (2 page)

Mom and Dad walk back into the room. They’re each holding a wrapped present. Mom’s is too shallow to hold a pair of hockey skates. Dad’s is way too large.

“Two more,” Mom says, smiling.

“We hid them in the kitchen,” Dad adds. “So Fido didn’t get them.”

“Are they dog treats?” I joke.

I’m smiling. The gifts aren’t skates, but they’re probably something special or they wouldn’t have tricked me into thinking there weren’t any more. Anyway, they have to be better than socks.

I unwrap the little one first. Inside is a plain brown shipping box with something heavy inside. I open it. It holds one hockey skate. Black with silver swipes. I touch the cool, carbon steel blade. It’s what I wanted, but I
wanted two of them. Did I forget to mention that to Mom, that I wanted a pair?

I look up at her, confused. She’s clapping her hands together silently. She does that when she’s excited. Dad holds out the other present. It’s big enough and long enough to hold a hockey stick. I don’t think it holds a hockey stick.

“Care to venture a guess as to what’s inside this one?” Dad asks.

I don’t care to guess. I care to open the present and see if I’m right. The box is mostly stuffed with wadded-up packing paper. Down at the bottom is the other skate. I was right.

“Thank you so much,” I say, then give both of them a hug.

Fido runs around in circles, bounding and barking. She always does that when we’re all happy at the same time. After a few orbits, she curls up at my feet and starts chewing one of her treats.

“Merry first Christmas, Fido,” I say, and scratch her head.

She licks my face. Her breath smells like real beef.

“Okay!” Mom says, clapping her hands together. “Who’s going to help me get this tree back up?”