“You ruined Christmas!” I hissed at Hank. He stood guiltily next to the empty Bundt pan on the kitchen floor, swallowing the last bite of raw dough for my favorite and most anticipated family tradition: Christmas pull-aparts—delectable doughy treats mixed with butter, butterscotch pudding mix, sugar and nuts.
Then he licked my hand as if to say, “Those were delicious! May I have more?” The nerve!
I should probably mention that Hank is a dog. My sister Meggie’s golden-retriever-poodle-mix puppy, to be exact. He was always getting his paws into something. But now he’d gone too far. I had been looking forward to those pull-aparts this Christmas more than ever.
A year earlier my fiancé, Jeremy, and I got married and moved from my home state of Washington to California for his new job. I ’d missed my family something fierce and was thrilled that we were back at my parents’ celebrating Christmas with them and my three sisters.
We had a blast on Christmas Eve preparing the pull-aparts—our family’s breakfast tradition for as far back as I can remember. We rolled two dozen dough balls, all of us joking and laughing—my sisters and I wearing our matching pajamas (another beloved tradition my mom keeps up even though we’re all grown).
Then we’d put them in the pan and set them on the counter to rise overnight. Now, thanks to Hank, they were history. And so was my perfect Christmas.
I stomped out of the kitchen and plopped on the couch. “Ugh. I can’t believe Hank ate all the pull-aparts,” I said, sighing, expecting my family to be just as annoyed.
“Oh, Lacie, you’re so dramatic,” Mom said. My sisters and Jeremy burst out laughing. “Really, Lace. It’s not a big deal,” Meggie added. “We’ll eat something else.” What? Was no one else upset that this rambunctious puppy had spoiled our extra-special Christmas breakfast?
Dad sensed my aggravation. “C’mon honey,” he said. “Let’s see if there’s a grocery store open. Maybe you can make a new batch.” I nodded and grabbed my coat. Hank followed us. What did he want now? He dashed out into the snow and stopped suddenly. Uh-oh. Yup, you guessed it. Hank got sick.
Serves him right, I thought. Meggie ran over and rubbed Hank’s fur, her eyes filled with worry. My heart softened a little. But I just couldn’t shake my anger.
Dad and I found an open grocery store and they had all the ingredients I needed. Back home, I sprinted inside, anxious to get started on round two of the pull-aparts. But Hank was sprawled out on the kitchen floor, whining. He tried to get up, teetered forward and hit his face.
Oh, no! I dropped the grocery bags, helped him to his feet and took him outside. He swayed back and forth and got sick again.
Meggie frantically looked up Hank’s symptoms online. “Sounds like alcohol poisoning caused by the pull-apart dough fermenting in his stomach,” she said. “We have to take him to the vet. It’s serious.”
We piled in the car. At the emergency veterinary clinic they confirmed that Hank had alcohol poisoning. They pumped his stomach and attached an IV bag of fluids to his little leg. I’d never seen him look so innocent. So helpless. Lord, forgive me for not forgiving Hank. And help him get better.
A few hours later we took Hank home. He rested quietly on his doggie blanket while we worked on the pull-aparts. They were a hit, as always. Warm, gooey and delicious. I looked around the room at my husband, at my family—the ones who’d do anything to make me happy—and at Hank.
I knelt down and petted his golden head. “I ’m so sorry, buddy,” I said. No, he hadn’t ruined anything. He’d made me realize that I had all the ingredients for a perfect Christmas right in front of me. Including one sweet, mischievous puppy.
Try Lacie’s recipe for Christmas Pull-Aparts!
