dog christmas party

Bonnie and Clyde Files 35…Christmas Party!

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First stop: the most forlorn thrift shop on the Oregon Coast. I would unforlorn it with my Christmas cheer and unforlorn wasn’t even a word. It would be after this encounter.

I walked in and nearly drowned in dankness. I didn’t see a single Christmas decoration for sale or decorating the shop and ached for the best schmaltz in music.

A female clerk appeared from the back. I asked if she had any decorations. She pointed me to a metal shelf near a grimy window and I went over to inspect. The pickens were slim and depressing. Humbug hanged in the air.

I chose the most forlorn decorations: faded crepe paper stars, four cracked tiny balls, and a tiny hand-held pencil sharpener that wasn’t even a decoration but somehow qualified as one because here it was.

My meager selections fit in the palm of my hand and I brought them to the counter. I asked how much and the clerk said four bucks. Four bucks! I said I’d give her two and she agreed. I told her I was going to decorate a tree near a river and hold a Christmas party for two old dogs.

She hesitated.

“I love dogs,” she said. “Have a great time.”

She was smiling as I left and I knew she was one of those people who hung (and filled) stockings for their dogs, and wrapped them presents, like I had.

Next stop: a convenience store for dog presents: made-in-Oregon beef jerky by a family-run company. Made in Tillamook County on the Oregon Coast. I chose two packages of slab beef jerky, old fashioned recipe. It was the first jerky I had ever purchased in my life. I decided not to call it jerky, which is hardly a festive word. Rather it would be called “roast beast” after the main dish served at the Whoville Christmas feast. The Grinch had carved it up to perfection and fed a slice to Max.

Last stop: the dog sanctuary.

I heard the canine cacophony even before I turned off the car’s engine. I got out and donned the pea coat over my Christmas sweater, a snowflake Pendleton stitched and sewn by women in Oregon over half a century ago. I stuffed the jerky deep into the recesses of the pea coat’s pocket because I knew Clyde would savage the wool if he caught a whiff. The decorations and other loot got stashed in a tote bag that I slung over my shoulder.

Christmas party, here we come! Partay on the river with dogs!

Sunshine blasted the landscape as we walked through the pasture and I could hear birds chirping down by the river. Walking is the wrong word. I was kicking up my heels and making merry with Bonnie and Clyde, singing, improbably, Bing Crosby’s “Christmas in Killarney.”

How grand it feels to click your heels
And join in the fun of the jigs and reels

We reached Christmas tree and the beer can still stood upright on a branch. I pulled out the decorations and went to work while Bonnie and Clyde nosed around. I hung the balls and pencil sharpener. I draped the crepe paper. I considered fording the river and retrieving the red bra for a garland, but decided otherwise. I rustled up a few beaver sticks and placed them on some branches.

Where was that damn Christmas beaver!

There is a simple reason no one uses Sitka Spruces for Christmas trees; decorating them can draw blood. And in fact, the sharp needles drew blood on my fingers and a droplet found its way on the branch. “Blood on the Christmas Tree”—sounds like a helluva good country Christmas song Johnny Paycheck or Jerry Jeff Walker might have written.

I stepped back from the tree for a look—not bad. Lopsided and goofy. I’d take it. It would be the only Christmas tree I would decorate.

My bloody hand extricated the roast beast. I unwrapped it and called for Bonnie and Clyde. I gathered them near the tree and fed them them the roast beast. I sat down on the grass and wrapped my arms around the dogs. “Merry Christmas you roast beast hounds!” I said. They licked my face at the same time and I started crying and laughing at the same time.

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Bonnie and Clyde Files 34

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I was barely out of the car when Bonnie and Clyde unexpectedly engulfed me in the parking lot and tumbled me over laughing to the ground. Jacque had released them from the back yard after they sent up a chorus of howls upon hearing my car.

“They’ve missed you!” she called from somewhere.

I hadn’t seen the crew in almost three weeks. They greeted me like no other dogs or humans had before. When I opened the trunk to load up on treats, Clyde jumped into the trunk! Bonnie was dancing around and making new barking sounds.

We cruised the pasture on an overcast day, Bonnie on the leash, Clyde loping in slow motion. Something felt a little heavy in my pea coat. I reached into a pocket and discovered a Fort George Brewery Cavatica stout, unused from a previous beach walk. Dark bliss! And the dogs would undoubtedly love treats soaked in stout!

I cracked open the beer and sipped and walked with the dogs. My mind drifted: I had lost so much the last 18 months. I had died. A total extinction of self. In that death, I had found something new and enlivening and I realized now it had started with Bonnie and Clyde offering the best of human qualities that so rarely appear in humans. I also found the magic that flows in a special relationship with a river that involves so much more than taking fish from it.

We reached our usual spot and traipsed through the mud to stand at the river’s edge. Incredibly, the red bra was still hanging in the willows. Even more incredibly, a blue heron was poking around it.

I dug out some treats, soaked them with stout, and fed Bonnie and Clyde. They devoured them. More treats, more stout. I even poured some cream into Clyde’s mouth and reckoned he was the only dog in the world at this moment in time drinking stout near a river.

Something hit me: let’s have a party or partay as my former otherworldly best friend used to say it with a glorious hillbilly drawl. Christmas was coming so why not a Christmas party with Bonnie and Clyde!

We needed a Christmas tree. I drained the last of the stout and then held it like a quarterback ready to throw a football. I looked around for receivers. I spotted one, a six-foot high Sitka spruce, one of the new trees planted in recent years to enhance the riparian area. I’d had a hand in planting about 10,000 of the same species in coastal watersheds in my Oregon life and I wanted to plant 10,000 more.

The can spiraled through the air toward the tree. It wedged between some branches. A completion! Our Christmas tree! I would decorate it more thoroughly upon our return and then Bonnie and Clyde and I would celebrate Christmas together on the river, probably in rain. There would, of course, be presents. The damn beavers better show!

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)