VANSTONE: A “paws’ for reflection of Christmases past.
As I get older — it is now left to paleontologists to determine my age — I become increasingly reflective around Christmas time.
Once upon a time, the emphasis was on looking ahead. What presents was I going to get? How many turkeys was I going to consume? Et cetera.
Don’t get me wrong. I still look forward to the holiday season, and the accompanying loot, but this will be my 54th Christmas and memories abound.
• Dad helping me assemble the train set that I would usually destroy before Boxing Day.
• Receiving a brand-new pair of goalie pads in 1972, when I was a member of the mite C Royals. (The goalie pads did not come with instructions, however, so I continued to be a sieve.)
• Devouring a pile of footballrelated books in 1975, while sitting by the fireplace at the Vanstone family’s sprawling, two-bedroom estate on Acadia Drive.
• Staying up all night in 1976 and listening to a Patrolman-9 multiband radio — a Christmas present from Dad that still sits by my bed.
• Spending every Christmas Eve with our neighbours — Laszlo, Anne, Tom and Mary (and Shandy, Kipper and Clover, their prized hounds).
• Refusing to go on a Florida vacation in 1979 because I didn’t want to spend Christmas away from my brown dog, Snowball. Mom and I stayed here. Dad and my sister, Laura, went to Florida. It was Alan Vanstone’s one chance to develop a complexion.
• Taking Snowball for our longest walk in 1981. It was a mild day, and I was still recovering from having my first-ever date request flatly rejected. Snowball, ever perceptive, noticed that I was moping, so he took me for a three-hour walk. Good dog.
• The ultimate postcard Christmas, in 1985. A quartet consisting of yours truly, Mark Anderson, Jonathan Anderson and Scott Clark played pond hockey near the Wascana marina. It was a perfect night — not a cloud, and not even a hint of wind. We finished at about 3 a.m., and I was a stellar minus-373.
• Waking up on Christmas morning to find my spaniel-terrier, Peeve, sitting by the tree and making strange noises. Someone had given us a box of chocolates, which was gift-wrapped. The gift was placed underneath the tree. Overnight, Peeve smelled the chocolates, tastefully unwrapped the present, gnawed through the box, and treated himself to a breakfast like none other. By Boxing Day, he was fine, but it was worrisome for a while.
• My first Christmas with my Scottish terrier, Oscar, in 1991. That year, and for our following nine Christmases together, he received more presents than I did. Our Christmas tree is still overloaded with Scottie ornaments.
• The Christmas night ritual with Oscar. Tradition dictates that we have a family dinner. Oscar used to sit by my chair, growling like my stomach, until I fed him pieces of turkey. Eventually, I caved in and let him sit on my lap. The dinner table included a saucer, overflowing with turkey, for Oscar. I suspect that he was spoiled.
• Purchasing not one, not two, but 15 presents for my godson, Eric Anderson, in 1994.
• 1997 — the first Christmas shared with (inhale) Chryssoula Filippakopoulos (exhale). A week later, we decided to get married. We received Oscar’s blessing, he being the ruler of the condo, so it was official.
• Oscar’s final Christmas, in 2000. It was clear that he was not feeling well, although we could not determine why. He had lost half his body weight, thereby mystifying the veterinarian, and was even lazier than me. However, he was his old self on Christmas morning, wagging his stubby little tail and emulating the 1991 version.
• Mom’s first Christmas with her Yorkshire terrier, Flutie. They are poised to celebrate No. 20.
It borders on the comical, really. I used to buy Mom various Yorkshire terrier items for Christmas — especially stuffed dogs. Several years ago, when Flutie was a youngster of 15, Mom asked that I refrain from giving her any more Yorkie material. There simply wasn’t any room for it.
Flutie is among the marvels of Christmas — an enduring link to a time when I was single and devoid of grey hair.
I tease Mom that Flutie is the first male that she has successfully raised to adulthood.
She won’t hear of it — and Flutie probably can’t hear it, anyway. He spends most of his time sleeping and, at one point, may autograph the printed version of this column in his own unique fashion.
I will not be offended if it comes to that. We all love that little guy — who was literally a “how much is that doggy in the window?” acquisition in December of 1998, when the Northgate Mall had a pet store.
So many priceless memories have ensued. Here’s to many more — for our family, and for everyone in your life. Merry Christmas from Flutie and friends.