door, neatly dodging several hands stretched
out to grab him, and raced toward them on four short, madly pumping
legs. He nearly knocked down poor Matthew as he barreled along, but
the child just giggled, recovered his balance and turned around to
follow.
The dog hopped up onto the raised platform
her dad used for his trains and raced across it, scattering pieces
of track not yet tacked down, train cars, plastic buildings, light
poles and even a few unfortunate miniature people as he scampered
across. By a major miracle, he missed the Christmas tree that sat
in the center of the train layout. It shook a bit, dropping a few
strands of tinsel across the tracks, but remained upright. The
barrel roller gizmo her father had bought the previous year was
less fortunate. It tumbled completely off the wooden support onto
the rug under the dog’s feet.
Her father shot to his feet, using a word he
almost never used in the presence of his family.
“Daniel Prescott!” Her mother might forget to
take the cookies out of the oven, but she had great hearing,
especially for those words. “The children!”
“Sorry, Jan,” he said to her mother, who was
rushing back toward them along the hall. Matthew had already
toddled past, chasing the puppy, but at least he went around the
train platform rather than across it. The dog charged into the
dining room and on through to the kitchen, tongue hanging out and
eyes bright. Carol could almost swear he was smiling. Her mother,
her brother and Laura raced that way, passing Matthew again. They
were halfway through the dining room when the dog charged back out
of the kitchen, running as fast as his stubby little legs could
manage, ears flapping and tail wagging. He went through the dining
room on the other side of the table to avoid his pursuers.
Once again he almost bowled over Matthew as
he ran back into the living room. Far from being bothered, the
child turned and followed, giggling loudly.
Her father had just begun to put the track
back together and right the overturned buildings when the dog
hopped up onto the platform again and charged across it. “Oh, he—”
He bit off the curse, but swatted at the dog, who veered around
him.
The swat was a bad idea. In swerving to avoid
it, the dog crashed into the trunk of the Christmas tree right
where the lowest, thickest branch joined it. He bounced off and,
undaunted, chugged across the platform, jumped off the other side
and raced down the hall toward the bedrooms.
In his wake, the tree stand tipped and the
whole Douglas Fir wobbled. Carol and her father both grabbed at it.
Each got hold of a branch and managed to keep it upright.
Until Matthew, following the dog more
precisely this time, climbed up onto the platform and toddled
through already scattered train cars, miniature buildings and
people. He almost stepped on one of the engines, missed it and
began to teeter himself. Carol and her father both reached out to
prevent him from taking a nasty fall, letting go of the tree.
They each got a hand on one of the toddler’s
arms and steadied him. Bereft of support, though, the tree wobbled
and fell over on top of them. She heard Matthew laughing, so
presumably he’d wasn’t hurt.
A large branch hit her back and knocked her
to her knees. A corner of one of the freight cars poked into her
hand and something else bit into her shin. Prickly branches sat on
her shoulders, her head and one large one rested against her left
elbow. Pine needles tickled her nose. Plastic icicles dripped down
her face and clung to her clothes. Colored glass balls rolled down
the tree and plopped on her before continuing their death plunge
onto the wood platform. A candy cane slid down the front of her
sweater. The smell of pine surrounded her.
“Damnation.” Pine needles dropped into her
mouth as if to punish her for the profanity. She spat them out
again.
“Carol, not in front of the kids,” her mother
shouted, followed by, “Oh no! Oh my goodness, what
out to grab him, and raced toward them on four short, madly pumping
legs. He nearly knocked down poor Matthew as he barreled along, but
the child just giggled, recovered his balance and turned around to
follow.
The dog hopped up onto the raised platform
her dad used for his trains and raced across it, scattering pieces
of track not yet tacked down, train cars, plastic buildings, light
poles and even a few unfortunate miniature people as he scampered
across. By a major miracle, he missed the Christmas tree that sat
in the center of the train layout. It shook a bit, dropping a few
strands of tinsel across the tracks, but remained upright. The
barrel roller gizmo her father had bought the previous year was
less fortunate. It tumbled completely off the wooden support onto
the rug under the dog’s feet.
Her father shot to his feet, using a word he
almost never used in the presence of his family.
“Daniel Prescott!” Her mother might forget to
take the cookies out of the oven, but she had great hearing,
especially for those words. “The children!”
“Sorry, Jan,” he said to her mother, who was
rushing back toward them along the hall. Matthew had already
toddled past, chasing the puppy, but at least he went around the
train platform rather than across it. The dog charged into the
dining room and on through to the kitchen, tongue hanging out and
eyes bright. Carol could almost swear he was smiling. Her mother,
her brother and Laura raced that way, passing Matthew again. They
were halfway through the dining room when the dog charged back out
of the kitchen, running as fast as his stubby little legs could
manage, ears flapping and tail wagging. He went through the dining
room on the other side of the table to avoid his pursuers.
Once again he almost bowled over Matthew as
he ran back into the living room. Far from being bothered, the
child turned and followed, giggling loudly.
Her father had just begun to put the track
back together and right the overturned buildings when the dog
hopped up onto the platform again and charged across it. “Oh, he—”
He bit off the curse, but swatted at the dog, who veered around
him.
The swat was a bad idea. In swerving to avoid
it, the dog crashed into the trunk of the Christmas tree right
where the lowest, thickest branch joined it. He bounced off and,
undaunted, chugged across the platform, jumped off the other side
and raced down the hall toward the bedrooms.
In his wake, the tree stand tipped and the
whole Douglas Fir wobbled. Carol and her father both grabbed at it.
Each got hold of a branch and managed to keep it upright.
Until Matthew, following the dog more
precisely this time, climbed up onto the platform and toddled
through already scattered train cars, miniature buildings and
people. He almost stepped on one of the engines, missed it and
began to teeter himself. Carol and her father both reached out to
prevent him from taking a nasty fall, letting go of the tree.
They each got a hand on one of the toddler’s
arms and steadied him. Bereft of support, though, the tree wobbled
and fell over on top of them. She heard Matthew laughing, so
presumably he’d wasn’t hurt.
A large branch hit her back and knocked her
to her knees. A corner of one of the freight cars poked into her
hand and something else bit into her shin. Prickly branches sat on
her shoulders, her head and one large one rested against her left
elbow. Pine needles tickled her nose. Plastic icicles dripped down
her face and clung to her clothes. Colored glass balls rolled down
the tree and plopped on her before continuing their death plunge
onto the wood platform. A candy cane slid down the front of her
sweater. The smell of pine surrounded her.
“Damnation.” Pine needles dropped into her
mouth as if to punish her for the profanity. She spat them out
again.
“Carol, not in front of the kids,” her mother
shouted, followed by, “Oh no! Oh my goodness, what
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