A Christmas story – Rest Less

Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.

It was Christmas Eve. Much to Bear’s happiness, we had allowed ourselves an extra hour in bed with a cup of tea, having gone downstairs to light the log burner, empty tanks, and eat our breakfast. I use the royal ‘we’, but in fact I mean Willow and Bear. I could tell the weather had turned because when I opened the back door, a true winter draft came creeping into the kitchen on icy fingers, making my breath come out in small clouds and causing the small dachshund to baulk, deciding whether a pee was really necessary.

Of course it was, so a gentle tap on the bottom meant that we made our way over the threshold and out to do the obvious. Personally, I don’t mind how cold it gets as long as it is dry, but sadly, little Bear has arthritic toes, meaning he doesn’t appreciate the cold underfoot.

By my thinking, we need the cold to kill off all the bugs and start afresh. There’s nothing more beautiful when walking out into the garden than seeing the hoar frost clinging to the fence; it’s feathery fronds illuminating all the cobwebs like swathes and swags of icing sugar across the garden. As if decorated overnight by faeries, it highlights even the tiniest of imperfections in the wire fence that creeps along the railway bank, the wrens visiting early to pick off tiny insects. It is like entering a different world, as if overnight my garden has changed into something out of Narnia, Willow and Bear playing the part of the Beavers.

But I digress. We went back upstairs to the warmth and comfort of our bed (notice it’s become ‘ours’ now), and whilst they snuggled up beside me, I enjoyed my tea and Kindle for an hour, a real treat as I’m usually up and out of bed by seven, regardless. This is the sort of decadence which stems from reaching 70 and creating small pleasures to revel in at Christmas time, a solitary life being mostly our bag.

Once up, we washed, dressed and made our way downstairs to go out and run about the field, chasing furry pals and exchanging greetings. Warm coats donned meant that little Bear didn’t spend his whole time trying to get back to the car, and Willow could enjoy her freedom, small legs bouncing, ears flapping in the breeze as she raced across the grass like a tiny reindeer, calling ‘Merry Christmas’ loudly to all who would listen.

At home again, we double-checked the present bag and, using our specially purchased ‘Dachshund’ wrapping paper, finished wrapping those last-minute gifts and set out velvet Christmas harnesses and collars for visiting friends the next day.

All jobs now covered, we spent the rest of the day in a round of visiting friends, writing, reading, thawing food from the freezer, and generally pootling about. It wasn’t until the evening when, at bedtime, I began to prepare a plate of chopped carrots, a mince pie and a bottle of non alcoholic beer that little Bear raised a paw, tapped me on the leg and, with a quizzical expression, was clearly enquiring what exactly I was doing. The process was deviating from our usual routine.

It was then that I realised that these two small sausages, who had missed so much as puppies, actually knew nothing about Christmas. I carried the spoils outside to the garden table and ushered the puppies upstairs to bed. Once safely under the covers, I pulled them both into my arms and, in the darkness, began to tell them the Christmas story.

I told them all about the birth of a baby under a guiding star; how the animals, the donkey, sheep and camels visited the child in the stable (I missed out the part about there being no Dachshunds present). I told them how the shepherds and wise men brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh and how this story had given rise to the giving of gifts on 25th December, with Father Christmas riding on his sleigh, nine reindeer pulling him high, up through the clouds to visit well-behaved children.

By the time I’d reached the point where Santa visited all good, well-behaved little sausages, they were both fast asleep, gently snoring in my arms, their sleek, furry chests gently rising and falling. Carefully, I slid them down onto the mattress and snuggled up beside them, pulling them close as I drifted off into sleep.

It was exactly at two or three am (according to Alexa), when we were woken by what appeared to be a soft thud above us on the roof. Instantly, little Bear was up and barking loudly, followed by Willow as she struggled to extricate herself from the covers. Still half asleep, somewhat confused and flinching from the frenetic high-pitched bark of an excited sausage, I groped for my dressing gown, as both dogs jumped off the bed, rushing downstairs, still calling loudly.

My first instinct was to look out of my bedroom window, always aware that the scariest thing in any night is other human beings, but I couldn’t see or hear anything to be concerned about. Taking myself off downstairs, I was greeted by two (now silent) sausages, ears pricked, heads slightly tilted to the side with excited bottoms wiggling, as if greeting friends, tails spinning wildly like tiny propellers.

This was not the usual action of sausages on guard, but sausages greeting those whom they know and love, so I was slightly surprised when I opened the back door to let them rush out. Out they went, rushing around the garden on bouncing paws. On quickly finding the garden empty, they simply took the opportunity to pee before coming back in and then, leaving me shivering at the open door, they took themselves back upstairs to bed under the covers. Sighing, I looked up at the roof, but all was clear and, recognising my place in this house, I locked up and followed them back upstairs, climbing under the covers to settle down for sleep once more.

This morning, Christmas morning, we woke together, both little Dachshunds crawling up to give me morning kisses, excited paws padding about on my chest. We got out of bed together and made our way downstairs to open the back door.

On following them out, I immediately noticed that, on the garden table, was an empty plate covered in a few crumbs of carrot and mince pie, next to an empty bottle of beer. Smiling to myself, we all went back in together, last night’s detritus in my hands, where, in the kitchen, I made them breakfast. Going to the dining room to light the log burner, I was surprised to see a small pile of beautifully wrapped presents at the foot of the palm tree (we have no Christmas tree). Handling them gently, it was clear that each was individually labelled: ‘Willow’ or ‘Bear’, and so, smiling, I popped them back where they sit, undisturbed.

Today we are all out with friends for Christmas dinner, Zelda playing hostess to the sausages as my dear friends play host to me. Later, when we return, we will go into the warmth of the dining room and, together with a glass of something cold and sparkly, we’ll open those presents under the tree. Willow is hoping for new William Morris collars, little Bear; new knitted jumpers to keep him warm on long walks. I, like them, will wonder what Santa will have brought them, both having been good, well-behaved little sausages! Merry Christmas.

Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.