Santa Clawed

regardless of disease won them respect and support. The order wore monks’ habits, a black rope tying them tight around the middle. This outward display of their vows, in these secular times, pushed some people away from them. Others rushed toward them, eager to bare sins. By starting the hospice, perhaps the brothers wished to spare themselves such repetitive boredom. What each brother learned over time was that there are no original sins.
    Harry Haristeen walked through the trees outside the square. Sticking close to her were Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, both nimbly stepping over garlands and wreaths that had been laid to the side, SOLD tags attached to them.
    Popping out from an aisle of trees off the small main square was Alex Corbett, head of Corbett Realty.
    “Harry, find a tree?”
    “Not yet. You?”
    “A big one. Need an impressive specimen for the annual company party.”
    “Same night as St. Luke’s. Bad timing.” She smiled.
    “Oh, Harry, people party all day and night. Half of the St. Luke’s people will come over to Keswick Club. I’m counting on you and Fair to add to the celebration.”
    “Alex, we’d love to, but I’ve got to help clean up.”
    His sandy mustache twitched upward. “Well, I’ll see you at Spring Fling, then.” He waved good-bye as he walked to his new Range Rover and drove off.
    She said to her animals, “Real estate has been tanking for two years and yet that man rolls in the dough. Wish I had his brains for money.”
    “You have a good brain,”
Tucker complimented her.

    As it was two in the afternoon on December 15, she had the farm all to herself once Alex left. The high volume of shoppers would fill the place after work. The other women at the work party had their trees up already, but Harry, like her mother, waited until ten days before Christmas.
    Tucker patiently examined each tree. Had to smell right.
    “Pine”
—Pewter sniffed—
“all smells the same.”
    “Does not,”
the sturdy dog replied.
    “I don’t want to hear about your superior nose. My nose is every bit as good as yours.”
    Although Tucker knew she was being goaded, an activity at which Pewter excelled, she couldn’t help herself. She rose to the bait.
“My nose is superior. Why, I can track a cow on a three-day-old line.”
    “Ooh la.”
Pewter tossed back her head.
“Even a bloodhound can’t do that. Furthermore, what do you want with a stinky cow? The cud breath could gag a maggot.”
    The fur on the back of her neck fluffed up as Tucker responded,
“You don’t know anything about canine noses.”
    “Well, I know all I need to know about canine butts, you tailless wonder.”
Pewter giggled.
    Tucker whirled around, ready for a fight. The dog had endured five lunatic cats at St. Luke’s. Her feline fun meter was pegged.
    Mrs. Murphy stopped to face them as Harry walked on, and said with an authoritative voice,
“Can it.”
    Rarely did Tucker oppose the tiger cat. They were good friends. Besides, Murphy could unleash those claws and tear her up.
    Pewter, while not wishing to tangle with the tiger, didn’t want to look as though she’d backed down.
“Who died and made you God?”
    Upset at her phrase, Tucker said,
“You shouldn’t talk like that. We just came from St. Luke’s. Besides, there are brothers around.”
    Mrs. Murphy couldn’t help but laugh at Tucker’s seriousness.
“Since when do humans understand our language? Even our own human doesn’t get it.”
    “Right.”
Pewter seized on what she took to be a tiny bit of support from Mrs. Murphy.
“Furthermore, most of the brothers are mental. They’re making up for something. You know, atoning for sins. Why would anyone want to sit with the dying? It’s not normal.”
    “Pewter, you’re hateful.”
Mrs. Murphy turned to follow Harry, who was attractive even in a dirty, smeared Carhartt work jacket.
    “I tell the truth. Why is that being hateful?”
Pewter yelled to the two animals leaving her.
“They’re a bunch of whack jobs.”
    As Tucker padded along next to Mrs. Murphy, she said,
“Her nose gets out of joint because she doesn’t like the cold. Does she stay in the truck? No. She lives in fear that she’ll miss something and then all she does is bitch and moan.”
    A gray cannonball shot past them. Pewter turned to face them after skidding to a stop, sending pine needles flying.
“You’re talking about me!”
    “Egotist,”
Tucker fired back.
    “As it happens, we were. We were discussing how you