Sunday morning was supposed to be a masterclass in domestic peace. The air was crisp, the house was quiet, and the coffee was piping hot. I cracked open the back door to let Moose out for his routine perimeter patrol, fully expecting twenty minutes of uninterrupted calm while he sniffed the frost on the grass.
Everything was going perfectly for exactly three minutes.
Then, my neighbor, Mr. Henderson, decided it was the prime hour to unleash his aggressive holiday spirit onto the cul-de-sac. Mr. Henderson does not believe in subtlety or understated fairy lights. He had purchased the “Mega-Santa 3000″—a towering, twelve-foot-tall inflatable monstrosity powered by an industrial internal fan that sounds eerily similar to a Boeing 747 preparing for takeoff.
I was mid-sip when the engine fired up. WHOOOOOOSH.
Moose froze dead in the center of the lawn, one paw lifted, tail locked at horizontal.
Through the chain-link fence, he watched in pure, unadulterated horror as a massive, wrinkled red puddle began writhing on Mr. Henderson’s grass, slowly rising from the dead. First came the bulbous, bearded head. Then the bloated nylon belly. Then the massive, mechanically waving right arm.
To anyone else, it was tacky lawn decor. To Moose, it was an ancient Red Kaiju breaking through the earth’s crust to destroy everything we hold dear.
Moose immediately went to Defcon 1.
He dropped his chest low, flared his shoulders, and let out a chest-rattling ROOO-ROOO that rattled the fillings in my back teeth.
“Moose, leave it! It’s just Santa!” I shouted through the screen, scrambling into my slippers.
That was when the wind joined the fight.
A sudden, aggressive winter gust caught the twelve-foot titan from behind. Santa lurched forward, folding slightly at the waist and casting a massive, terrifying shadow directly over Moose’s side of the fence.
Moose took that personally.
“HOLD MY KIBBLE, MOTHER. THE RED BEAST HAS CHOSEN WAR.”
Moose didn’t waste time barking from a distance. He launched into full tactical action. He sprinted the remaining twenty feet to the property line, but instead of pacing along the chain links like a sensible dog, he reared back and stood straight up on his hind legs. Fully extended, Moose is taller than most NBA power forwards.
He threw both massive front paws over the top rail, reached his jaws across enemy lines, clamped his teeth squarely around Santa’s waving nylon wrist, and yanked with the force of an enraged grizzly bear.
SCREEEEEECH. (Nylon tearing under high tension).
POP. (The internal halogen light bulb dying instantly).
HISSSSSSSSS. (The tragic sound of Santa’s soul violently vacating his body).
Deprived of air pressure, the giant collapsed instantly, draping its limp, deflated red corpse right over our shared fence like a massive wet towel. But Moose wasn’t taking chances with a fake surrender. He whipped his head back and forth with violent, joyful enthusiasm, thrashing the limp arm to ensure the threat was permanently neutralized.
Mr. Henderson came charging out of his front door in an unbuttoned flannel shirt. “HEY! WHAT IS HE DOING?!”
I sprinted into the freezing yard in my pajamas. “MOOSE, DROP HIM! DROP THE MAN!”
Moose finally paused, turning his head toward me with wild, victorious eyes, still chewing firmly on a hunk of shredded synthetic fabric. The rest of Santa lay folded awkwardly across the chain links, looking like an elf who had partied far too hard at the annual workshop mixer.
Moose gave a slow, proud wag of his tail. “I did it, Mom. The red demon has been slain. You are safe.”
I had to march over, manually pry the shredded red sleeve from his jaws, and look my neighbor in the face while Moose happily licked the taste of nylon and high-voltage motor grease from his lips.
“He… uh… thought it was an intruder,” I offered, utterly defeated.
Mr. Henderson stared at the mangled heap of plastic on the ground, then looked up at my smiling, 100-pound hound.
“That thing was one hundred and fifty dollars,” he said, stone-faced.
So that is where we stand. I am out $150, Mr. Henderson’s lawn is completely barren, and Moose is currently passed out on the rug by the heater, sleeping the deep sleep of a warrior. Every few minutes, he lifts his heavy head, glances out the window at the empty fence line, gives a tiny, satisfied snort, and goes right back to dreaming.
The yard is secure. The Red Giant has fallen. And I am on my way to the hardware store to buy a “Beware of Dog (He Will Fight Santa)” sign.
