~ Vicki's Blog ~


-- Welcome -- About Me -- Fiction -- Non-Fiction -- Poetry -- Inspirational -- Young Adult -- Kids -- Awards --

-- View -- Memoir -- My Garden -- Flowers -- Tea Time -- Photos -- Faq -- Blog -- Store -- Links --









Posted December 11, 2010






"RUDY, PHONE HOME"




Last time I penned a missive, I was Princess Tula Belle of Oxford, Mississippi aka - Tootie - world traveler. Also, last time I gave you an update about my adventures, I was romantically involved with a San Franciscan pooch who was enamored with my beauty and of course my innermost being...and well, er, modest as I am, you get the picture. The dude was smitten by my charm and overtaken by my charisma and told me skyscrapers would fall if one looked into my eyes. Flattered, I'll never forget him.

But unfortunately, I had to move on. I've traded the west coast for other things western. I've gone cowgirl. The cowgirl, the woman in me, is for the moment in time where I belong. Who needs a man-dog when you've got a good horse and a reindeer. Yes, that's what I said. Reindeer. Claims his name is Rudolf. The red nosed reindeer. Mwahhaaahaaaa! I say he's a twig figment of his own imagination. Worst thing - he copies my every pose.

But everybody has at least one good story in them and here's his: He says the elves failed to adjust the harnessing on last year's run and unbeknownst to Santa Claus, he'd slipped loose and was stranded on a roof top momentarily entangled with a nutcracker mouse trying to slide down the chimney to a battle with toys that come to life. Last thing Rudy saw was a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer leaving a vapor trail back to the North Pole. He says Santa must have figured out how to use his new GPS tracker to make it back home without him.

Get this. He played pitiful at the Christmas Tree lot where he'd been camping out and sucker for all things cute and cuddly, Mom wagged him home against Dad's protests we had enough critters to feed. I'm a cowgirl a rock's throw from a mountain range. And since I don't have my horse yet - it's difficult to find one that is short enough for me to mount bareback Indian style - I have to babysit Rudy for fear he'll eat the greenery off the hemlock and blow out the bubbly lights. I get an ornament - he gets an ornament. So annoying. You'd think he was a cat the way he copies.

Til Santa gets back, Rudy's camping out at my place. He's into bonding. Thinks he might like to be a bulldog for a change. Says the elves sometimes get on his one last nerve. I told him fat chance. Once a reindeer, always a reindeer. And, he needs to do something about that nose of his. Powder it or something to tone down the glare. Keeps me awake at night and draws excessive attention.


I wouldn't mind him hanging his antlers on the hat rack at my party pad for awhile if like, ET, he'd just phone home. But no, he stands at my feed bowl waiting for chow and sniffs around the tree like he thinks he's going to get my Christmas presents. Those chaps and spurs belong to the Princess. He should have gotten his list in earlier if he wanted to lasso something.

And, I've seen him ogling Grandmother Connie's cut crystal bowl where Mom keeps the Ghirardelli Chocolate Peppermint Bark Uncle Marty sent. Of all chocolates, that's my fave. No way am I sharing those. Get real!

Rudy keeps telling me he'll prove he can fly if I'll just let him have one Peppermint Bark. I don't even share those with the Nutcracker Mouse and he carries a sword. So I yelled, "PEPPERMINT!" and barked real loud. I thought it was pretty funny. He didn't crack a grin. Just jumped in my bed and tried to steal my favorite sheep toy.



Just so you know, this is not the most wonderful time of the year.

Does anybody out there have the North Pole on their speed dial?
















-- Welcome -- About Me -- Fiction -- Non-Fiction -- Poetry -- Inspirational -- Young Adult -- Kids -- Awards --

-- View -- Memoir -- My Garden -- Flowers -- Tea Time -- Photos -- Faq -- Blog -- Store -- Links --

Contact Information

Email to....:vmoss@livingwaterfiction.com