Ah, so many years ago, when I was a wee lad, mama bundled me up and took me to Petco to have my photo taken with Santa. This was my first year of life, I was only a few months old, and yet the promise of treats was too great a temptation to resist. And so we arrived at Petco with several other doggies and their owners, waiting for the grand arrival of Petco Santa. Would he arrive in a sleigh with eight mighty reindeer? This was LA, he could have arrived in a stretch limo with an entourage. We all waited, and waited, and waited. No Santa (there was a rumor that he was drunk – at 10AM on Sunday when he was supposed to be Santa-ing). The poor employees watched us waiting, many dogs in their Xmas finery, for our chance to tell Santa what we wanted for Xmas while simultaneously trying not to puke in his lap or scratch his eyes out. I’d like to think that they took pity on us, but the truth was probably more like their manager picking on the employee with the least seniority (otherwise known as “the new guy”), handing him a full Santa outfit-in-a-bag, and anointing him Santa. Out he strode, from the employee-only back room, the cheap polyester chafing his crotch and scratching his face (I know this because he kept saying it over and over). There would be only one shot, one chance to catch the gravity of the moment, and all the finery of the holiday season.
And BAM. Nailed it. SUPERMODEL.
Love,
Bogart
