12/24/2025
Sounds accurate. Merry Christmas!
Last Sunday, December 14th, was supposed to be a peaceful day of rest. It was crisp. The coffee was hot. I opened the back door to let Moose out for his morning patrol.
Everything was fine for exactly three minutes.
Then, my neighbor, Mr. Henderson, decided it was time to unleash his holiday spirit. Mr. Henderson does not do subtle. He bought a "Mega-Santa 3000" a 12-foot-tall inflatable lawn decoration with an internal fan that sounds like a jet engine.
I was sipping my coffee when I heard the fan turn on. WHOOOOOSH.
Moose heard it too. He froze in the middle of the yard.
He watched, horrified, as a giant, red, wrinkly puddle on the other side of the chain-link fence began to rise from the dead.
First, the head inflated. Then the belly. Then the waving arm.
To Moose, this was not a decoration. This was a Red Kaiju rising from the earth to destroy the neighborhood.
Moose engaged "Defcon 1."
He let out a bark that rattled my fillings.
ROOO-ROOO!
"Moose, leave it!" I yelled, running to the door in my slippers.
But then, the wind picked up.
A gust of wind caught the 12-foot Santa. The giant plastic man leaned forward, looming over the fence, casting a shadow directly onto Moose.
Moose took this personally.
“THE RED GIANT IS ATTACKING! HOLD MY KIBBLE, MOTHER.”
Moose didn't bark anymore. He acted.
He ran to the fence. Now, a normal dog would bark through the fence.
Moose stood up on his hind legs. When Moose stands on his hind legs, he is taller than most NBA players.
He reached his front paws over the top of the fence.
He grabbed the inflatable Santa’s waving hand in his mouth.
And he pulled.
SCREEEECH. (That was the sound of nylon tearing).
POP. (That was the sound of the internal lightbulb dying).
HISSSSSSSSS. (That was the sound of Santa’s soul leaving his body).
The Santa began to deflate rapidly. It slumped forward, draping itself over the fence like a wet towel.
Moose didn't let go. He shook his head violently, thrashing the deflating plastic man back and forth.
Mr. Henderson ran out of his house. "HEY! HEY!"
I ran into the yard. "MOOSE! DROP THE SANTA!"
Moose looked at me, wild-eyed, still holding the limp, red plastic arm in his teeth.
The rest of Santa was draped sadly over the fence, looking like he had had a very rough night at a holiday party.
Moose’s tail wagged tentatively.
“I killed him, Mother. I killed the Red Monster. We are safe now.”
I had to walk over to the fence. I had to pry the plastic sleeve out of his jaws. I had to look Mr. Henderson in the eye while my dog licked his lips, tasting the victory of nylon and electricity.
"He... uh... he thought it was an intruder," I stammered.
Mr. Henderson looked at his flat Santa. He looked at Moose.
"That thing cost $150," he said.
So, here I am. I am $150 poorer. Mr. Henderson’s yard is empty.
And Moose?
He is sleeping peacefully. But every now and then, he lifts his head, looks out the window at the neighbor's yard, and lets out a soft, satisfied snort.
The Red Giant is gone. The yard is his again.
And I have to go buy a "Beware of Dog (He Hates Christmas)" sign.
