During the height of pre-Christmas hubbub, as the humans in our household fret the fine points of preparing for the season, Kiko maintains his air of customary quiet serenity.

He is the tranquil eye of our holiday storm.

He gifts us with his presence as we wrap gifts.

Kiko keeps calm as we carry on.

This December I’m taking Kiko’s comforting presence to heart.  I’ll step back from the edge when I feel myself about to plunge into holiday overdrive.  My gifting will focus less on those who have everything and more on those who have little.  I will say no to some proposed, supposedly festive activities.  Our Christmas cards will become New Year’s cards, sent out in early January.  Maybe mid-January.

I’d like to hold my little dog up as some kind of spiritual mentor.  I could pretend that he’s a holy fellow, engaged in prayerful contemplation, actively resisting the rampant secularization of Christmas.  Clearly, Kiko abides “in that place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God,” as in the words of a favorite hymn.

But I know he simply enjoys a good snooze.  Apparently, as a senior dog, he needs to sleep more now than during his teen years.  And should he wish to help with gift-wrapping or cookie-making, he lacks the hands to do so.

But my handsome dog, lying in sweet repose, reminds me that I can allow myself a time-out.  Every once in a while, I join him on the sofa for a nap.

Typically, Kiko endures my company for only a short while.  Then he gets up, stretches, shakes vigorously and resettles on the floor.  Please, he says, don’t mistake his desire to snooze for a need to cuddle.  Unless there’s a chance of thunder, of course.

For a post on Kiko’s only fear, see Evading the Terrible Thunder Monster, April 18, 2013.