There are those of you who excel at sending holiday greetings. By Labor Day, you know what photos you will use. You compose a list of milestones, events, and stories all year. You are the first to the printer; you buy the cute holiday stamps while the supply is still plentiful, and you curate the perfect return address labels. You organize your time, snagging 15 minutes here and there to address envelope after envelope with a red italic sharpie before exhibiting exquisite discipline, devoting a precious weekend afternoon to finishing the project. Or perhaps all of your addresses are in a spreadsheet so that your printer merely spits out labels, and all you have to do is cross out people like us, those who mail holiday cards so sporadically that you might even wonder if we are still sentient, let alone alive.
I shudder to think of all the years I’ve had good intentions. I collect the components, the unique stationery, and the artistic cards bought early enough to warrant a discount. I carefully load everything into a stylish carry bag, maybe one even bought for this very purpose, with pockets to keep everything pristine and separate, hoping that surely this investment will be the incentive I need to finally achieve sending holiday cards to everyone I know in a timely fashion. But then something always happens. I carry the bag around for weeks. I miss my earliest deadlines and get caught up in preparing for Thanksgiving. Suddenly, it is Black Friday, then Small Business Saturday, Secondhand Sunday, Cyber Monday, and Giving Tuesday, and my cards are still unfinished. The project falters and flirts with doom, but I don’t give up until about the second week in December when I implode, my half-empty bag in total disarray. A few days after the New Year, I put the bag and its meager contents on a back shelf to commemorate yet another year that I have failed to fulfill this task.
But hope springs eternal, so here I am in 2023, and instead of a holiday card, I am offering limericks written by my husband, Larry. He and I are commemorating the year that he turned 80, the year that I turned 75, and the year that we had to give up our dear, sweet Maltese named Carina. Some verses are more anthropomorphic than others, but these limericks describe living with an intuitive, fetching little dog on the outskirts of a southern California village amidst wildlife and offer a glimpse of life in the slow lane at its best.
There once was a dog named Carina, who had a most pleasant demeanor. She was tiny and cute, with a soft tail to boot. You'd like her if ever you'd seen her. Carina was really quite pretty. She ranked near the top in the city. It made her so proud, she could shout it out loud, so she asked Dad to publish this ditty. Carina was proud of her name, but some people forgot. What a shame! When they called her Serena, or even Katrina, she was kind and did not assign blame. Carina knew she should not stare if she ever met up with a bear. She should make herself tall, (which is hard if you’re small) and leave without any fanfare. Carina knew what steps to take if she ever ran into a snake. She would stop in her track and slowly walk back, and try hard not to make a mistake. Carina was happy to walk when there was no owl or a hawk. Before it got dark she would stroll in the park while Mommy and Daddy would talk. Carina, the dog, studied spelling with her mommy and dad in their dwelling. There were K-words like KAT, and N-words like GNAT, so many her head started swelling. Carina the dog loved her dolly. What they did when together, “Oh, golly!” They would bump and would hump, and when done they would jump. As a couple, they were always quite jolly. Her parents would take her to dine out if the place had a “Dog Friendly” sign out, but she stayed under the chair, with no food she could share. Why they liked this she never could find out. Carina loved taking a nap on the bed or on somebody’s lap, or she’d lie on the floor, and sometimes would snore. If mom stirred, she’d wake up ASAP. The dog’s daddy liked feeding the birds. He spoke to them using their words. He’d say “tweet tweet” and “coo”, and sometimes “who! hoo!”. They loved it and came by in herds. Carina would climb on Dad’s chest where she’d stretch herself out for a rest. She did it each morning without any warning, thinking this bed was the best. .....and that, my friends, is just a reminder for us to enjoy life and not take ourselves too seriously. Life is short. Be kind, and smile whenever possible. Enjoy December, and don't be overly stressed.