A Boxer’s Day Story

I’m an old retired man just seeking the quiet life, but these friends, family and dogs keep fucking that up.

The wife and I had 32 people over for Thanksgiving. Mostly Savages, but a record number of my family (11) appeared — with our kids having kids and our 93-year-old patriarch bringing more “girlfriends.”

In what seemed like only hours later, my brother, the former fruit farmer and future bootlegger, came down to the desert to see the old man. That meant another family dinner at our house.

Minutes later it’s Christmas, and 25 more hungry, drunken, loud mouths head for our house.

The Boy and his smarty pants wife sucked all the festivities out of the holidays when they absconded with our 18-month-old grand baby to the beaches of the north shore of Oahu, Hawai’i. No fake Santa, no smiling kid unwrapping presents on Christmas morning.

They GOT a free 2-bedroom condo. We did NOT GET an invite — despite our annual July invitation to spend a week escaping the hell of Arizona to rent a house on the beach in California (our treat). But I’m not bitching. Just bitter.

We did get invited to watch their mini-Doberman Susan, whose favorite pastimes are fighting dogs and stealing food.

With our tiger-striped Chiweenie, it’s a two-dog Christmas.

Our friends down the street also fled Arizona for Christmas. Leaving us with Carol’s boyfriend, Milton, the Schnauzer.

That made it a three-dog fortnight.

Milton left us with puddles of blood and urine as the jagged stone in his bladder decided to stab him for the holidays.

It’s a big couch, but it never seems to be big enough.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for the hairy little monster (Schnauzers are non-allergenic because they have hair not fur). But I managed to overcome my empathy while cleaning up the third blood trail on the living room floor.

Fortunately, the wife found doggie diapers on Amazon, and we were able to keep most of the blood out of the house.

All the dogs are happy to sleep together (taking a much higher percentage of the bed than their size would allow) but almost every other activity they have to be separated.

Milton is a morning dog and demands a trip outside at dawn. But after he forces me out of bed, he refuses the collar and leash and has to be coaxed or tricked into them.

This con game can take 10 minutes or more and draws the sleepy girls out of bed when they pout and whine while Milton heads out into the cold (40-degree morning in the desert winter).

When we get back, it’s breakfast time.

Susan can’t eat with others. After a series of abysses and lost teeth, she’s on a soft food diet. Only she doesn’t know that and is more than happy to intimidate the other dogs and steal their dry food or hard treats and gum them down or threaten her remaining hard bits. Milton’s on a special diet to soothe his stone and keep his pee flowing. Carol is a scaredy-cat eater who refuses to eat in front of other dogs.

Every meal feels like we are running a catering service and serving meals in separate rooms for each dog.

Somehow Susan got the rights to eat in my office. She wolf’s down her food first and starts aggressively scratching at the door to try and steal a meal. Meantime, picky Milton and careful Carol abandon their bowls to see what’s going on. Now we are spiraling into dog feeding hell, as Susan scratches, we herd dogs back to eat, Susan scratches and we start all over again.

After eating, it’s the girls’ turn for a walk where Susan threatens any dog she sees, and an emboldened Carol decides this is a good time to scare any children we might pass — growling like an elf that would only scare a child and trying to show her tiny teeth that any human would have to squint to see.

Morning is the short walk. All three dogs demand a longer walk at dusk followed by their custom dinners in their own rooms.

For Christmas we sent them into exile between breakfast and dinner. Susan back to her empty home, and Carol and Milton shared Milton’s house.

Meantime, we got ready for the Savage feast. Buckets of ravioli and spaghetti, coolers full of beer, water and soda and tables covering the backyard and laid out in the shade.

By 3 pm every Savage stomach was full and every liver that could handle it was busy converting alcohol to urine and gas.

The presents were passed. The wife and I agreed years ago not to exchange gifts — our trips out of the heat to Europe or the beach are our “presents”. But this year the wife just could not help herself

“I saw this shirt and I knew ‘Carol’ would have to give it to you.”

That shit won’t fly on Christmas.

I thought I could implement this new present that night.

But Milton had a 2 a.m. accident that made my side of the bed look like a crime scene. I spent the rest of the night in the guest room sleeping between the two pillow-hogging bitches.

Hey never fear; Boxing Day is here. And today is the day — Carol.

“I’m only talking to my dog today.”

An old man’s dream come true.