The Holiday Dog

Stephanie Dulak-Eghigian

One morning in early December 2021, amid multiple holiday to-do lists, I casually said to my husband, Dave, seven simple words: “Maybe it’s time to get a dog.” It had been ten years since Jake, our lovable Lab mix, had passed, and I missed the butt wiggles, warm snuggles, and sloppy kisses.

The mention of getting a dog immediately tapped into Dave’s adolescent sensibilities. My seven innocent words lit up the teenage part of his brain like a Christmas tree. “Yes, a dog for Christmas!” he said. I knew he was imagining those holiday dog commercials where a golden puppy wearing a big red ribbon was gently lifted from a gift box, while human actors feigned joyous surprise.

“Well, no,” I said, “I meant sometime in the spring when it’s not so wet and cold outside.”

“We’re getting a dog for Christmas,” he said again, smiling widely as he sipped his morning coffee.

There was no taking my words back. In his mind, a dog—his dog—was already on its way. Elves, adorned in red and green, could deliver it at any time—or Santa might slide down our chimney and plop a little furball under the tree. It could happen.

In the weeks leading up to December 25, “I’m getting a dog for Christmas” became Dave’s mantra, and “I’m not getting you a dog for Christmas” became mine.

But then I added a caveat—a list of requirements for our new dog that I believed would be difficult to find.

“We’ll get a dog,” I said, “but it must be a small dog, hypoallergenic, and a rescue.” Dave didn’t flinch. “Easy,” he said.

I smiled, satisfied that it would take months to find this dog matching my timeline of April or May.

That year was our first Christmas in our new home, and we were determined to transform our open-concept living room, dining room, and kitchen into our own private holiday house. We had purchased a new nine-foot-tall artificial Carolina Pine-style Christmas tree. A carefully curated music playlist, featuring a diverse mix of artists from Bing Crosby to Pentatonix, provided the soundtrack as we decorated the oversized conifer in shades of teal and silver, with pops of royal blue and gold. A long silver bow topped the tree. The tree’s white lights, candlelit tables and countertops, and the amber glow of the corner fireplace combined to create a serene winter ambiance. Exactly the atmosphere we were hoping for. That evening, we celebrated our achievement with a glass of wine before collapsing into exhaustion.

Christmas came alive in our new neighborhood, especially at night when silvery mounds of snow met the star-splashed midnight sky. Meticulously decorated homes looked like a ceramic Christmas village with lights lining snow-topped roofs and entranceways. Inflatable snowmen and Santa Clauses bobbed in the wind. Illuminated sleighs and reindeer sat atop glistening piles of soft snow. Wreaths and holly boughs decorated every door. The ethereal scene convinced me that the aroma of chocolate, cinnamon, and brown sugar wafted from steaming chimneys and drafty windows.

After weeks of preparation and anticipation, Christmas Day 2021 finally arrived. Once the meal was cooked—a roasted turkey complemented by an embarrassing amount of caloric side dishes and pastries—the holidays settled into a sugar-coated, feel-good movie mode where miracles abound, the old inn is saved by a last-minute benefactor, and couples lived happily ever after in a magical place where every day is Christmas.

New Year’s Eve came and went as January jolted us into reality. The Christmas magic was fading too quickly. But I didn’t let it go easily. I prolonged the holiday season by keeping our decorations up past mid-January, justifying this by declaring them “winter decorations.” By then, the dog conversations had subsided. We settled into our normal work routine of overthinking projects, jam-packed email inboxes, looming deadlines, and unproductive meetings.

And then, on January 12, as I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, I froze. The Humane Society had posted a photo of a tiny, seven-pound dog.

I called Dave to the living room, “You have to see this,” I said.

He peered over my shoulder to view a white toy poodle mix available for adoption. This tiny dog met every requirement I had established.

January 12 was the dog’s last day at the shelter.

By the next morning, Walter was resting peacefully beside me on his poinsettia-print fleece blanket. I welcomed his soft snores as they lulled me into the kind of calm I’ve only experienced while watching sleeping babies—a mix of serenity and quiet contentment.

He didn’t arrive in time for Christmas. But even as I carelessly uttered those seven words, even as we playfully bantered back and forth about whether Santa would deliver a dog on December 25, a homeless dog was wandering out in the cold. And as we toasted the New Year, he was already on his way.

It didn’t matter when he got here.

He was home. He was safe. He was loved.

Walter, the holiday dog

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