Twelve Days of Christmas?

On the fist day of Christmas, my true love and I decided to gift one another for twelve days.

I thought we could exchange gift cards, but she had a much more literal interpretation of the carol that had inspired our game.

On the second day, I was surprised and amused to receive two real-life turtle doves. It was a bit much, but she had gone through so much trouble to get them. More concerning were the three French hens that arrived on the third day, boxed and delivered to our door.

By the fourth day, I received nothing and was relieved. The French hens and turtle doves had already messed up the living room. She apologized and said our four calling birds would arrive next week.

“Not a problem,” I told her. “We have far too much joy in this household already.

On the fifth day of Christmas, I received five golden rings.

I could handle that, but I also explained that she needn’t supply such extravagant gifts. My pleas went unnoticed by the sixth day, when I received no less than six dogs–a welsh terrier, two Great Danes, three foxhounds, and a pug.

“This needs to stop,” I demanded. “You’re not even following the song right.”

“You’d rather have six geese a-laying?” she asked, with a raised brow.

“That’s not the point,” I said over a cacophony of barking. “No more animals, period!”

She left the room with the dogs dutifully following. Our house had been turned into an animal sanctuary from hell, and I dreaded what awaited me for the remaining days.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love wasn’t there.

She had packed a bag and taken all the animals with her. Calls to her cell phone went straight to voicemail. I left her a message, pleading with her to come home.

The doorbell suddenly rang. I answered to find a pack of drummer boys waiting outside in the cold.

“Now’s not a good time, gents. I’m sorry.”

“But, sir,” the freckled-faced British boy in the front said, “This is our home now.”

Irritated, I stepped forward. “If I’m not mistaken, twelve drummers drumming is on the twelfth day. This is the seventh. Goodbye!”

I slammed the door and paced the hall, trying to collect my thoughts. Bird droppings covered the floor amid scattered feathers. The dogs had torn our Christmas tree apart. The pressure of a perfect holiday had proved too much. Just then, my cell phone range, and I saw my true love calling.

“I’m taking a drive,” she said. “I need to clear my head.”

“That’s fine. When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. The dogs and birds feel slighted by you.”

I held my tongue. “That’s ridiculous. I’m quite taken with them.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course!”

“Is that drumming I hear outside?”

I moved to the window and saw the drummer boys in our driveway, belting out some tunes. “It’s just the TV,” I assured her.

She said that she’d be home later and hung up.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, eight miniature liquor bottles.

It was just what I needed to deal with the birds, dogs, and incessant drumming of our new young house guests.

On the ninth day of Christmas, our gift-giving extravaganza seemingly ended.

“There’s been a mix up,” she said. “The strippers won’t be here as planned.”

Of all the things to fall through, our nine ladies dancing was it. I rose from the couch with a glass of rum-nog in hand and played my John Denver & The Muppets record to much holiday cheer.

My true love and I danced in the moonlight of gently falling snow outside the window.

“Twelve days really are too much, don’t you think?” I spoke. “How about we just celebrate a normal Christmas?”

She nodded in agreement as the dogs scurried about.

Then came another knock at the door.