Mean Santa

I'm sure Santa had good intentions when he dropped off that desiccated deer leg for Bessie Anne.  However well meant, that gift has essentially ruined her life.  My normally placid little dog is now a nervous wreck, worn to a frazzle as she moves the bones from one hiding spot to another.  She's tucked them under the junipers, only to pull them out a little while later to bury them behind the first shed.  Bess will be walking beside me when she's struck by a wave of panic and will run back to the shed to dig up her treasure and shove it under the tarp over the woodpile.  Moving paws and mutterings show that even her sleep is uneasy.  I would have said Bessie is as honest as the day is long, but she's taken to sneaking and lying.  Holding her head low and hiding her mouth, she comes into the house.  When I find a bone in her toy box later, I can't stop from asking one of those silly, rhetorical, "mother" questions.  "Did you bring this bone into the house, Bessie Anne?!"  And she'll look me straight in the eye and say, "No.  It wasn't me.  I don't know how that got there."  She'll look pointedly at Frank, trying to throw blame his way, and then graciously offer to take the offending bone outside for me.  Now I know darned well Frank did not haul that bone indoors.  Santa would be well advised to bring a sparkly collar for Bessie Anne next year.