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Bandrew VII: Egg-Nog-Head
We'd been in bed for about an hour.
The house was silent, reeling in the aftermath of friends and strangers who'd come to help us celebrate the holidays. I didn't think anything of it when I heard Archie, our adopted black terrier, get up and head downstairs.
He does that sometimes. He just wanted a drink, I reasoned.
Well, he got one.
I heard a small crash sometime later, but didn't investigate, and the next morning, upon coming downstairs, I noticed a glass tumbler (emptied of its contents) teetering precariously on the edge of the end table near our couch. It was at just about the exact angle that would allow Archie to stand underneath it and catch the stream as it fell, in his mouth and, apparently, on his face, which was crusted over and white.
When he saw me take notice of the tumbler, Archie ran upstairs and cowered in the closet. I examined the carpet for spilled nog. There was none. He'd licked it all up.
MAY EACH OF US ATTACK THIS CHRISTMAS WITH THE TENACITY AND COWARDICE DISPLAYED BY THE EGG NOG HEAD.