I did not wake up that morning planning to save Christmas.

I woke up planning to chew something I wasn’t allowed to.

That’s when I saw it.

Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Not my mommy.

A different mommy.

A mommy who smelled like peppermint lip gloss and bad decisions.

I froze.

My tail stopped wagging.

The bells stopped jingling.

The universe held its breath.

I locked eyes with Santa.

Santa blinked first.

That’s when Mrs. Claus arrived.

She did not knock.

She did not announce herself.

She appeared… already disappointed.

She was holding a candy cane the size of a street sign and the emotional weight of centuries of unpaid holiday labor.

Santa tried to explain.

He said something about “the spirit of Christmas.”

Wrong answer.

She swung.

There was a blur.

A crunch.

A smell of mint and regret.

Santa hit the floor and was immediately rushed to the North Pole Ice-Cu with what the doctors called traumatic peppermint injuries and what I call “should’ve known better.”

The elves panicked.

Reindeer started calling in sick.

Someone misplaced the Naughty List.

Someone else cried into a stocking.

That’s when they all looked at me.

I was still standing there.

Silent.

Judging.

They asked me to wear the suit.

At first, I thought this was a prank.

I am six months old.

I sometimes forget why I walked into a room.

But they put the suit on me anyway.

The hat slid over one eye.

The coat was heavy with responsibility and cookie crumbs.

The moment it touched my fur, I knew…

I was in charge now.

I reviewed the Naughty List and ate the corners.

I replaced coal with treats because everyone is stressed.

I demanded snack breaks, emotional support belly rubs, and frequent naps in front of imaginary fireplaces.

By night, I delivered gifts fueled by chaos and determination.

By day, I prepared to be Mrs. Claus’s star witness for her Divorce Court television special.

I practiced my testimony by staring dramatically into the distance.

“I saw everything,” I would say with my eyes.

“I bark for the truth.”

Santa eventually recovered.

Mrs. Claus got the settlement.

The mommy disappeared into the night.

And me?

I returned the suit.

But not the legacy.

Christmas survived.

Justice was served.

And Santa was never left alone with anyone named “Mommy” ever again.

Now if you’ll excuse me,

I need a nap.

Saving Christmas is exhausting