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I was browsing my daughter's Myspace tonight and in her profile she mentions
"... you, Mr. Santa, owe me a puppy"

I had completely forgotten about that unusually warm December day. UPS delivered the crate on December 23rd (Come on, we all know Santa ships live animals UPS ground. can you imagine the mess in the big red bag?).

The crate was in perfect condition except for a single puncture through the corner where someone had driven the fork of a forklift half way through it. A yellow seal on the crate lid indicated that UPS had at some point opened and inspected the contents and a heavy black X was checked next to "undamaged, contents re-secured". I gave no thought to it at the time, but the UPS driver looked like he had been riding outside the truck (through the woods), and by the expressions on his face his persistent cough was intensely painful as well. He was sick as hell, and I took that little electronic signature capture without even thinking about his hands just coming off of it.

I opened the crate, and an adorable white puppy was inside, a bow and card around its neck that said "From Santa", and another yellow seal with a tag that said "secured by UPS" wrapped twice around its snout. It was immediately apparent that the seal had been applied to quiet the howls of pain when the forklift had crushed Santa's little gift's back paw through the side of the wooden crate, pinning it in a splintery vise. The puppy's eyes were glazed, the poor little animal's pain mercifully softened by the effects of the concentrated vapors of the rubber cement used to so efficiently stop his bleeding.

The process of removing the dog from the crate was fairly simple, and once freed from his restraints and containment he immediately leapt to his feet, and took off running like nothing had ever happened to him. Except he got about 5 feet away and his little body went rigid. He was completely and freakishly still, only the smallest twitch of his tail indicating that he was still alive.

At this point, Santa swooped in on his sled, dropped some foul smelling dust on the puppy, and he was immediately restored to health. He ran to me, licking my hands and face. By the following morning (Christmas eve), he had developed a fever and a cough that sounded identical to the skinny little UPS driver's cough. By that afternoon he was dead. I laid him outside hoping Santa would come by and sprinkle some more dust on the little fellow, but he never came.

My beautiful daughter, I killed your Christmas puppy because I didn't wash my hands. I'm sorry.