I usually talk to my mother on the phone once a week or so. She lives alone in Florida and works for a church doing funerals part-time.

She says she enjoys it, but it seems like a tough gig to me, especially for a woman who is one year removed from her 80th birthday.

We make jokes about it.

“So after your shift Mom, do you wash the smell of formaldehyde out of your hair?”

That sort of thing.

By the time she pays for her gas I doubt she makes any money, but she says she has to pay for her air conditioner, which cost $8,000. I told her she should have bought herself a good fan, like they did in the old Florida, but that’s a joke, of course. When I went to visit her a few years ago I stayed in a VRBO that was a glorified camper and even in April, if you didn’t have the air conditioner on, it was like stepping into an oven.

The last time we talked she asked if I got my Christmas tree yet and I said no, because while most years it is a complete fiasco, this year will be even worse because of my well-trained dogs, who tear around the living room like hyenas on methamphetamine.

Unless I chain the tree to one of the posts that hold up the second floor of my house, there is zero chance they won’t knock it over five minutes after I get it up. Then there is the lights, which I am sure they’ll do their best to chew on and then any ornament they can get their mouth on will surely get chewed up. Considering that Hazel can jump over the back gate, which is a good 5 feet tall, no ornament is really safe (the other day she jumped over the gate to smell the neighbor’s dog, and then once she gave the little pug a good smell, she jumped back in, which was quite a sight, to be honest).

And forget about putting any presents under the tree. They’re sure to be chewed on, torn open and partially digested.

Still, I’m kind of looking forward to Christmas, even if it is the inevitable disaster it promises to be, it will be a one to remember and, to be honest, unlike humans, it’s hard to stay mad at a dog.