Mrs. Badwulf finally got around to calling her friends in her address book to see if they had power. I told her it was a bit late in the crisis, but you know how women are. She told me to shut up. So, I shut up. The Badwulf household is already filled with refugees from the Dreaded Ice Storm of 2013. Grandpa Badwulf is here: he is on parole for Christmas. My nephews, Gluten Badwulf and Spud Badwulf, are here while their parents travel to Florida for a fact finding mission for the Friends of Dentistry. Mrs.Badwulf has had some casual friends drop by for coffee, red wine, or just whiskey (depending on the time of day). Finally, she called them all.
I never really found out for certain if Mrs. Badwulf’s friend had no power. None the less, she came over; with her dog. Now, in my culture, we eat dog at Christmas. The oppression of the homophobic, slavery loving, abortion hating Christians led to the suppression of dog eating. Such hatred! Now, thank any god but Christ, the evil tyranny of the Christians has been broken by the hysterical progressives under their patchouli scented batik banners of Che. This dog was some sort of poodle shih-tzu cross. Very fine example: plump with overfeeding, a layer of fat fine for rendering into gravy, and a hide that would make a nice hat; maybe a polishing rag for the car. And lazy. No redeeming quality as watch dog. Poorly house trained, so opening up a slot in the household organization would allow a better guard dog candidate to be recruited.
I started my search on the internet for a suitable dog recipe. Dog treat recipes, apparently. Does not anyone cook up dog? You know, a proper skinned and gutted carcass? Chopped up into quarters and cuts. What spices are best? Should you bread the cutlets before frying? My helpful nephews found some more pertinent links, offering suggestions. We have plenty of potatoes, carrots, peas, and spices in the kitchen; and a big soup pot. Gluten and Spud licked their lips as Grandpa told them how tough and tasty a dog meat soup could be.
The dog, itself, was foul tempered and lazy. It growled at me when I found it sleeping on the bed. It growled on me when I was too slow to let it outside to pee. It growled at me when it put a trembling, fat, tasty paw out onto the ice outside. It barked at me to be let in. ‘Would you not want to be somewhere warm, doggie?’ I asked, looking into those brown eyes. The dog smelt bad, in the way that dogs smell.
Mrs. Badwulf’s friend had fallen asleep. I had been plying her with Tahiti Treat spiked with Jack Daniels: you cannot taste the alcohol with this concoction. Her words were slurring before she nodded off. Her last words were a curse upon her ex-husband. As for the Christmas Dog, it had signaled that is was suitable for sacrifice by gnawing upon Mrs. Badwulf’s suede pumps.
You too can celebrate a post Christian Pagan Christmas. Let us call it Holiday! How about a nice bowl of greasy, spicy dog stew? Mmmmmm.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.