At last, all the hustle and bustle in this house is finished. Not a cat is stirring . . . Winchester is conked out on The Writer's afghan on the bed, someplace he is not supposed to sleep. But a lot is forgiven during the holiday season.
The Writer has had Christmas music playing since Thanksgiving Day. Not like her--she usually rails against "too much Christmas." But maybe she's mellowing in her old age.
As for me, I'm enjoying my spot under the Christmas tree in the pink glow of the lights. It makes everything seem rosy . . . soon The Writer's husband will be home and they'll have dinner here in the dining room. Winchester, who can hear a knife scrape against a plate in Iceland, will trip down the stairs, hoping for the "ham-and-turkey-that-falls-from-the-ceiling" miracle (The Writer's Husband throwing him bits).
Instead of wrapping the presents, The Writer put them in these vintage suitcases, one for her, one for her husband. I hope there's something in one of them for me.
Do I hear jingle bells? No, it's just Winchester, coming down the stairs and hitting the stocking tied to the newel post. But I do hear the garage door . . . Christmas Eve is about to begin. 'Night!