Really early on Christmas morning, or late on Christmas night, Tom and Alice drained the sherry glass, ate the last lonely pie, and watched the carrot-shavings softly curling by the fire.
“Think she’s asleep?”
Tom’s red dressing gown was tied with a sash that matched the hat on his head. Santa-style, he smiled.
“Check the sack,” whispered Alice as they reached their daughter’s door, so he crawled to the cot.
“I'm invisible, see?”
But infant voice squealed out with infant glee, “Nice doggy!” and father scrambled away.
“She thinks I’m a dog?” he asked. Alice patted his head.