My Close-Up With Dixie

Christmas can kill if your mood runs counter to its bright lights, crass commercialism and facade of togetherness.

This year, I didn’t look forward to Christmas with the family. The events of Dec. 23 cast a pall over the whole proceedings; listening to the Jesus of Cool reissue and napping next to the cat sounded a lot better than rallying around that mound of presents I was forced to subsidize.

I barely got out “Merry Christmas” a few times when leaving the office before it became futile. I had not a drop of holiday spirit in my bones; joy would only emerge with the end of the holiday.

A dark, soggy drive winding through the Georgia hills and a Christmas Day outline of the bailout's necessity didn't help.

Only on Friday did I find a few moments to savor, when I hunkered down with an old friend.

The family rallied around the the HDTV in the basement, I rumbled upstairs for ice water and oatmeal cookies. As I grabbed them then prepared to return, a jingle caught my ear.

One family member had stayed upstairs, unable to hear the troops marshaling in the kitchen. With her hearing vanished with age, Dixie stuck to her napping spot beneath the kitchen, where the low window sill offered an easy vantage point to activity on the cul-de-sac.

At nearly 14 years, she sleeps a lot. Without any clues to her lip-reading skills, I didn’t bother into those peaceful brown eyes. Her whitened snout and eyebrows instantly gave away her years.

While she still insists on leaping the two front steps following a bathroom walk, her rear legs barely cover the distance and always come down awkwardly.

Those arthritic hips tell more of her age than graying fur. Dixie came to us from the pound, where she landed with a broken hip after a car accident. For the first few years we had her, she trembled when a car horn sounded. For the past few, that old injury reared its head; he stride clearly suffered for it.

She barely raised her head at my presence; when I approached, he stretched then flopped on her side. The treat changed the equation.

I sat there, crumbled up a holiday treat to make it easier on her to scarf it down. She briefly surveyed the green chunks then worked her way from largest to the crumbs on the area rug.

A head rub with knuckles kept her attention. While she would deploy her nose to nudge my hand back to the scratching spot, she took what I meted out, and no more. Then we just sat there in silence.

When I left the kitchen, more jingling ensured, before a re-energized Dixie walked up to me.

More rough hip movement on the basement stairs completed the journey.

As always, Dixie picked the most dangerous spot in the room – the floor next to my dozing mother’s feet, where the beagle could be trampled by a waking dream about stolen purses.

Soon enough, Dixie slipped back to her dreams of younger days.