[yawn]. Yeah. The Writer is still in bed. And she went to bed early last light, like always.
She was tired of chasing you away from the old village houses and bottle-brush trees and celluloid reindeer on the sideboard. That's The Writer's favorite display--she's particular about it because the decorations are so old.
I have a fondness for one particular reindeer. He's tiny and cute. Can I help it I knock other stuff down while I'm batting the little reindeer off the sideboard? Anyway, she missed our talk.
She misses it every year. It's funny because she knows that animals can talk for an hour on Christmas Eve--I mean, so humans can hear them. She doesn't know stuffed animals can talk, too.
Her loss. We sorted out the world's problems. She could have taken notes and given our ideas to the new president. Is there something for me in this suitcase? Hark! I smell a bag of Party Mix, my favorite favorite treat! There is a Santa Claws. Merry Christmas, Ellie.
Merry Christmas, Winchester. And Merry Christmas, everyone!