After spending Christmas Eve with one family, we drove up late that night to the next family gathering. We swung home to pick up Thatcher and Boden and began our three hour trip, only to end up in what felt like the North Pole. Because of the sub-zero temperatures and the heat from the dogs in the backseat, the windows stayed frosted over the whole drive. We would periodically hear a licking sound and would glance back to see either Thatcher or Boden melting the ice of the window with their tongue. I've always joked that if our dogs were actual children, they would be the kids in their kindergarten class who eat glue. So we finally arrived pretty late that night, and spent most of Christmas day there. Thatcher, as usual, ran around frantically looking for my dad's cat Che, and Boden sneakily tried to eat the ornaments off the Christmas tree. Once again, the dogs were stuffed with treats and plenty of leftover ham from dinner. They slept soundly the entire way home.
As if they just weren't spoiled enough in the past week, Thatcher and Boden were surprised with a visit from Santa. To their delight, they received a plethora of new toys (which are by now mostly shredded) and bones (which are by now mostly eaten). The first thing Thatcher did when he saw all of their goodies was to grab at the largest treat he could find, a rawhide in the shape of a big candy cane, and run upstairs to stash it away in a safe location. As I discovered later, this location turned out to be our bed. And in the process of trying to bury it thoroughly, he managed to claw a hole in the sheets. We also created a new game, in which the we stomp on all the toys with squeakers repeatedly while the dogs try to find out which toys are squeaking. It makes them go nuts and trot around hilariously, inspecting every suspicious toy. It's true, sometimes the humans are as easily-entertained as the dogs.