dug around in my larder, and uncovered a few apples and dates and dried figs and carrots and spuds, plus a pretty good can of beans, and got the pot going over the open fire, slicing off tender strips of juicy young dog into the mix, plus pepper and garlic and a few other things.
A cold wind was howling outside, one of the periodic Santa Anas that blew down from the desert, but within our little house the fire was hot, the company good, and the odor of roasting beast was beginning to fill the room with savory scents.
It was ready about the time the sun went down.
Then they gathered all ’round—George and Jax and Theo and Kate and Mel and Sue and Don and Ceel and Beck and Bert and Jule and the rest—and I ladled out bits of meat and veggies and fruit to each of them, and poured myself a cup of brandy. Afterwards I spun them stories of the old days, when man still walked upon the earth and dogs were pets and the houses were full of people celebrating the holiday season.
“Kinda like us,” George noted.
“’Deed it is,” I agreed. I raised my glass.
“Merry Christmas, folks,” I said.
Outside the wind continued to protest our presence, but inside, we were safe and warm and content. They snuggled up close to me, while I watched the flames shifting and moving in their unfathomable patterns.
“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” George squeaked.
Life was very good.
[Another adventure of Charlie and his friends is chronicled in the author’s story, “After All.”]
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