“NOW? NOW? NOW?”

“NO YOU TINY LUNATIC, YOU CANNOT EAT ANY MORE OF YOUR GIFTS,” I admonish Olive after she slices through two or three less carefully wrapped items on the morning of Christmas Eve. The anticipation is going to kill her. No more than 30 seconds after placing Olive’s gifts at the foot of the citrus-scented tree, she made her move. As though she were leading the Calvary, she galloped over to the tree and executed a swift snatch ‘n grab. As I begin to approach, she senses that she’s been “caught,” and as I gently pry the tattered wrapping paper with the canvas chicken leg dangling from it, she gives it up. She tries this twice more during the day and I finally surrender. “OH GO AHEAD YOU CRAZY POOCH. MERRY CHRISTMAS.”