Christmas!

That magical day when the house smells like turkey, tension, and mince pies that look… untrustworthy. My 13‑year‑old son Gabe gifted me a diary, which is either beautifully thoughtful or his polite way of saying, “Mum, please document your disasters so we can study them later.”

Challenge accepted, child.

The household circus is in full swing.

Alice — our beautiful scruffy black mongrel — has perfected the art of looking like she’s silently judging everyone’s life choices.

Nicolas, our little Blenheim cavalier, is waging war on every bauble, pinecone, and festive ribbon like he’s defending the realm.

And Shiva, our beautiful German Shepherd, couldn’t care less about Christmas décor but would absolutely commit tax fraud for leftover pigs‑in‑blankets.

Andy is “getting into the Christmas spirit,” which mostly means trying not to make eye contact in case I hand him a dog-related task. The boys are thriving: Gabe is feeling proud of his thoughtful (or shady) diary gift, and Ben is celebrating Christmas in the traditional pre‑teen fashion: intense grazing, zero eye contact, and hearing only sentences that start with “Dessert is ready.”

Christmas lunch was at Mum and Dad’s, joined by my brother Stan, his wife Althia, and their 12‑year‑old son John.

And then there was the logistics issue.

My parents own Pudding.

Pudding the Yorkshire Terrier, who is roughly the size of a fluffy slipper… and has the attitude of a nightclub bouncer who’s just spotted someone wearing trainers.

Pudding does not like dogs.

Or cats.

Or footsteps.

Or joy.

And he definitely does NOT like Christmas.

Thus, our entire zoo stayed home — which meant we attempted a normal family lunch at my parents’ house, then drove home to reunite with the animal kingdom.

Walking back through the door was like stepping into a reunion tour no one asked for. Alice reacted like I’d been lost at sea for 14 years. Nicolas behaved as though we had abandoned him, betrayed him, and possibly sold his toys. Shiva gave me a calm, dignified German Shepherd stare that translated to:

“Hm. So you left. Bold choice.”

The cats, of course, didn’t give a single festive fig.

Blossom, my beautiful ragdoll, blinked politely — like a Victorian aunt with moderate disappointment.

Mortimer, my male black mainecoon, sauntered over at the speed of a glacier.

Ursie, my supersized, female tabby mainecoon, stared at us all with the energy of a grumpy landlord whose tenants have missed rent… again.

And as I stood there, surrounded by fur, whiskers, and betrayal, I realised something important:

Christmas in a six‑animal household is exactly the same as every other day.

Someone is hungry.

Someone is judging me.

Someone is plotting food theft.

And at least one creature — statistically speaking — is preparing to poo.

Merry Christmas to us all.