Well, I did it. I took the boys to see Santa.
My sister suckered me in to doing it.
“I’m taking my dogs to go see Santa. You should meet us there. It’ll be fun.” she said.
“Fine.” I said.
So I loaded them up in the car and off we went.
My stomach hurt on the ride there. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a bad idea, but onward I drove. One of my voices kept telling me “You’re suppose to be relaxing and enjoying the holidays, go back home.” The other voice was saying, ” You haven’t taken the dogs to see Santa in 4 years, it’s time to make new memories.”
Obviously, the latter voice won.
When we got to the place, it was packed with dogs and people. I kept seeing owners that had no control over their dogs walk into the store.
I left the dogs in the car and went to scope out the scene.
As soon as I walked into the store I decided that there was no way in hell that I was going to do this. I have 300 pounds of fluffy testosterone sitting in the car and there are way too many obstacles for us to deal with in this tiny store, and the floor is wet which means I may or may not take a tumble.
This is not a stable, stress-free environment for me.
But my sister had other plans because she was already standing in line and said that she already paid for me so I had to do it.
Oh, and my sister had this with her.
A puppy! She adopted this cute little ball of fur the other day from a local rescue organization. There’s a whole story to go along with her, but I’ll explain that in another post because right now were talking about my panic attack.
So anyway, as my sister stood in line waiting for her turn I stepped back and assessed the situation. There was barking, and laughing, and panting, and even a little growling and lunging going on, but there was areas of the store I could use to my advantage.
My head was spinning.
Finally my sister got up and took her dogs to see Santa. My sister knew I was freaking out so after she was finished she told the lady in charge that she also had two big dogs outside and would it possible if we could go get them and get their pictures taken without standing in line again. The lady had no problem with that.
So we put her dogs in the car, grabbed Sherman and Leroy, walked down a total separate aisle then all the other dogs were in, walked up to Santa and Mrs. Claus, situated the dogs, took the pictures, and walked out.
It was kind of like a covert operation. Enter. Picture. Exit. No talking, no stopping, no touching other dogs. No one will ever know we were here.
I don’t think Sherman and Leroy even knew what happened.
What the hell is going on? I thought we were going to the park. Who are these people? What are all those other dogs doing here and why are they standing in line? Why is Mrs. Claus wiping my slobber with her mitten? Why is Santa acting like he’s a jockey riding a horse? I am a dog Santa. What? Why are we leaving already? Can I at least grab a bully stick out of the bin?
Fine! I’m at least going to walk and pee on this display so somebody knows I was here.
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