"Mommy, why does that fat man walk past our house every morning leading his dog with one hand and carrying a bagful of poop in his other one? Is he one of Santa's helpers checking for bad little girls and boys? Would he put that bagful of poop in my stocking tonight?"
"I don't think so, Tiffany. Just to be on the safe side though, I'll catch him on the street, tell him what a good little girl you are, and give him some treats for his doggie."
I'm not sure that this was the way it actually happened, but I experienced the Christmas Spirit this morning. Christmas Eve or not, once the dog is fed, his metabolism converts all that good kibble into feces at the speed of light. We are typically no more than a quarter mile into our mile-long morning walk when he "makes a deposit". We complete the jaunt reeking bag in hand. Most folk are repelled by the sight (and possibly the odor), so we typically don't have a whole lot of friendly conversations with passers-by.
I was therefore surprised when a lady I'd never spoken to before approached the dog and me this morning, wished us a Merry Christmas, and handed me a bagful of doggie treats. "I see you walking by every morning, and I always loved golden retrievers," she said.
Jimmy Stewart had his "wonderful life", but, for me, that lady's kindness this morning showed the true Christmas Spirit.
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