Gentle Readers,
I would like to mention, on this Eve of the Boxes and the Plates of Cookies Left Out, that I have strived every day, in all the ways a Wolfhound can, to be as Good as possible, and I can only hope that Mr. S. Claus of Pole North will keep up his end of the bargain. If you should like for me to specify some instances, they would include the non-bitery of several size-small humans who seemed inclined to utilize my majestic tail as their plaything, countless occasions upon which I forewent the immediate relief of floor-poopery and opted instead for my Daddy to come home and administer walkies, my constant surveillance for squirrels that would, if given half a chance, divest us of all possessions decorative and edible, and my alerting of Daddy on the occasion of critical changes in smells and sounds above and below his human perceptory range.
It has been said that Mr. S. Claus can determine when all and sundry creatures are in a state of alertness or slumber, and it is my most fervent wish that his obvious conclusion that I, Mordred T. Dog, am ever-vigilant, watchful, and in need of only the most minute amount of eye-rest, and that my efforts will be thusly rewarded. Ideally with a soft toy of the squeaky persuasion, or perhaps some ham.
Yours, festively,
Mordred T. Dog
