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I laugh uproariously. I really didn’t expect them to understand me at all. But just like the horn thing, I make all kinds of assumptions about animals. I really should do some research on them, but I’m not much of a book person. Unless it’s a recipe book.
We head down to Santa’s Workshop, a massive facility made out of trees that are as big around as some of the redwoods in California. A red metallic roof can hardly be seen under the snow that covers it like a blanket.
Even though it’s the middle of the night, there are still lights on inside the toy-making side of the building, because the angels take spreading Christmas cheer seriously, and there are twenty-four-seven shifts. I don’t go over there, because I selfishly don’t want to get caught up in helping to meet quotas.
I open the side door that leads to the massive kitchen I inherited from Mom and hold it open for the reindeer.
No, it wasn’t locked. Angels don’t do locks. No need.
Once all my boys are in, I flip on the lights and look around at my kitchen. My cabinets are all painted a bright cheery green. I have pristine white countertops. And all of my appliances are cherry red. I give a sigh of pure relaxation. This kitchen is my happy spot. My retreat.
“Okay, now, let’s vote on cookies!” I tell the guys.
Donner bucks up onto his hind legs, pawing the air with excitement. Of course, he accidentally kicks Dasher in the face, and I swear the other reindeer looks seconds away from murdering him and then creating a coat out of his fur.
“All right, boys, you remember the rules. One tap only. You can only vote for one type of cookie. Got it?” I narrow my eyes and focus in on Cupid. He always double taps. Without fail. He stares back innocently, widening his big buck eyes at me.
I slide my gaze sideways to Comet, the reindeer with a white slash across his forehead that looks like a falling star. “You better not steal extra cookies, because some are going to be for Blitz.” He’s not great at sharing.
“And you, mister.” I wag a finger at Donner, who's got the darkest eyes and markings of the bunch. “No trying to sneak pepper into my cookies this time.”
Donner snorts in what I assume is laughter. He’s a bit of a brat. He’s always tripping the others and always trying to mess with my recipes. But still, he’s so light-hearted and silly, his tongue lolling out of his face half the time, and I don’t have the heart to do more than chastise him.
Fine. I spanked him once. But he kept backing his ass into my hand after that, so I think he misinterpreted it as some kind of weird butt scratch. So I don’t do it anymore.
Blitzen, worn out from having to actually walk, sinks to his knees in the corner and then onto his side. He splays out on the black and white-tiled floor.
“Settling in for your long winter nap?” I quip.
Blitzen’s hoof clops against the tiles once.
“Want me to wake you up for cookies?” I ask.
Another clop.
“All right. Go to sleep, sweetie, and thanks for the ride home.” I wink at him, and I swear it looks like he tries to wink back. Or maybe that’s just what a reindeer who’s about to pass out does. Like I said, I don’t research these things.
I turn to the four remaining reindeer, and Donner leans forward to nip my ear gently. Not biting down, just grazing my skin with his giant teeth.
“Whoa, boy,” I laugh. “Okay! Okay, we’ll vote.” I shove his big furry head away and say, “Line up so I can make sure there is no cheating.”
The four reindeer line up like good little soldiers, their massive chests at the same height as my face.
“All right, if you want biscochitos, the anise cookies, stomp once.”
Cupid stomps.
“If you want traditional sugar cookies, stomp once.” Comet stomps, and Cupid stomps again.
I wag a finger at Cupid. “That doesn’t count.”
He wrinkles his nose.
“Gingerbread men,” I say. Dasher and Donner both clop.
“All right! We have a winner!” I declare. “And since none of you can talk, I get to pick the music!” I flip on the CD player, an old school device we have to have up here because there’s no radio signal. I press play, but “Santa Baby” comes on, and I immediately recoil.
There are just some things you don’t want to imagine your Dad doing, and slipping things under other women’streesis one of them.
