A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas. Lynn Hulsman Marie

the elf kisses.

      “That’s your dog?” The towering teen asks me. “He’s hilarious. He oughta be on TV or something.”

      “Thanks,” I say, trying to muscle past. The crowd is closing in, and I just get a glimpse of the chair Hudson was sitting on. It’s empty.

      “Excuse me,” I holler. I’m eye level with the shoulders of all the Midwestern giants. I stand on my tippy-toes to see if I can spot Hudson. I can’t. “Move!” I yell, garnering lots of affronted looks.

      “You don’t have to scream, Ma’am,” one of the boys admonishes. “It takes more energy to be rude than to be nice. Here, I’ll help you through.” He uses his body like a barge in an icy river in order to part the crowd, and I walk in his wake until I hit the step up to the dais.

      “Hudson!” I call. I don’t see him. My chest starts to feel tight. “Hey, where’s my dog? Where’s Hudson?”

      The elves all begin to look around their feet. Smiles melt from their faces as it’s clear he’s not there.

      “Where is my dog?” I demand, starting to feel dizzy.

      Their voices rise in a cacophony of panicked Japanese sentences, and a tall boy- elf holding Hudson’s collar and harness points. “There! There is the dog!”

      I swing around only to glimpse Hudson’s tail disappear between the tall Uggs of a teenaged girl and out toward 57th Street.

      “Hudson!” I scream. “Someone, grab my dog! Help!” I start to push my way into the crowd, but I’m like a salmon swimming upstream. “He doesn’t know what to do in traffic!”

      “Wait lady,” the boy-elf shrieks. “You forgot your selfie!” I don’t stop, but he manages to catch up with me. He lurches into my back, propelled by the sea of bodies, and says, panting, “All this yours! Take!” and shoves Hudson’s leash and harness, along with a piece of cardboard, into my hand. I think I spy some fur, down by a man’s expensive leather brogues, but I can’t be sure.

      I see a hole in the crowd, and take off into a run, but I lose sight of him. I keep calling, and launch my body like a bottle-rocket in the direction I last saw him. He must have crossed the street. My lungs constrict. What if he gets hit by a car? Out of nowhere, a horse and buggy speeds into my path, and almost runs me over. By the time it’s gone, I can’t see Hudson anywhere.

      “Hudson, here Huddie!” I cry over and over again. “Someone help me!” My blood is icy. I’m running in wide circles, paying no attention to cars and bumping into bodies everywhere. I’m too terrified to cry. I hear myself screaming Hudson’s name, and feel rawness in my throat. I stumble at the entrance to the subway, and almost go headfirst down the stairs. Shaking, I lower myself to the top step and sit down, even though there is a sea of humanity ascending from underground. If he went down these stairs, anyone could have snatched him and hopped the A, C, B, D, or 1 train in the blink of an eye. He could already be in another borough. It hits me. It’s possible I could never see him again.

      I hang my head between my legs and sob.

      *****

      “Miss?”

      Through a fog I hear a husky, male voice. It sounds impatient.

      “Hey, Miss. Are you listening to me? You can’t sit on the stairs. You need to move, now, or I’m gonna have to move you.”

      I take my face out of my hands, and look up to see a muscular, dark-skinned New York City cop, clad in traditional deep blue. The gun on his hip is inches from my face. Scrambling to me feet, I wipe my running nose. “Sorry, officer. I’m moving. There. I’m up.”

      Hands in his belt loops, he gives me a stern once-over.

      I try to tell him I’ve just lost my dog, but my face crumples, and I know that if I talk, nothing will come out but a wail. I clamp my lips shut.

      His stern demeanor turns to concern. He leans in. “Did someone hurt you?

      “No, it’s just…” I swallow the lump in my throat, and manage to say, “My dog was stolen.”

      He pulls a pad from his utility belt. “What did the perpetrator look like?”

      “OK, I don’t know if he was stolen stolen, but he wouldn’t run away. I know that.” A shiver skates through my body. He wouldn’t, would he?

      “Miss, in New York City, there are leash laws. Your pet should have been properly restrained.” He slides the pad back into his belt, and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. He’s solid. His silver badge reads simply ‘Curtis.' I can only assume no one messes with this guy. Still, he does sport a tiny candy cane pin on the collar of his turtleneck sweater. Maybe he has a soft side.

      “Yes, I know.” Weakly, I hold up the leash in my hand. “I live here. It’s just that he was taking a selfie…”

      “Your dog was taking a selfie?”

      “They dressed him in a hat and scarf… I need to get his collar from the elves… the giants kept me away from him…”

      “Miss, are you on drugs?” Officer Curtis whips out his flashlight, shines it in my face, and peers deep in to my eyes.

      “Of course not! Wait, you’re a police officer, right? Can you help me find my dog?”

      “Miss, this is New York City,” he barks. “I’m not exactly Fireman Joe from Podunk, Nowhere who spends all day getting cats down from trees. We have serious crimes to deal with.”

      Another cop, this one skinny as a whip, with an angular face and pink cheeks, sidles up to us. “Everything alright here, Curtis?” he asks, checking me out sideways.

      “I lost my dog. I need help,” I interrupt.

      “That’s right up your alley, Curtis,” the other cop says. “What kind of dogs do you and your mother have up there in the Bronx? Sporks? Porkies?”

      “Morkies,” Curtis mumbles.

      “That’s it! What are those little fellas a mix of?”

      “Maltese and Yorkshire Terriers.”

      “Yeah, that’s right, Curtis and his mom rescue little mixed-breed dogs. Tiny things. Pretty cute. Curtis loves dogs, don’t cha’ Curtis?”

      “Well, yes. I do. But we are on duty, Scrivello.” He pulls his partner to the side. I hear him whisper-hissing, “How’s it gonna look if at the end of the day all we have to show for ourselves is a citation for public urination and a found puppy?”

      “It’s gonna look like we made people keep it in their pants, and like we helped the distraught citizens of our fair city. You worry too much, Curtis. Probably why you don’t have a girlfriend. Help the young lady! We’ll crack the Columbian drug ring after Christmas. Come on, show the girl a picture of your dogs. You know you want to.”

      Without having to be asked twice, Officer Curtis pulls out his wallet, and flips it open. “The big bruiser there is Apollo. Don’t let his size fool you, though. He’s a teddy bear.”

      From what I could tell, Apollo could fit in a loaf pan and probably didn’t weigh 10 pounds soaking wet.

      “And here’s a picture of the girls, Aretha and Tina, from last Christmas.”

      “Lemme see,” Scrivello said, craning his neck. “Ah yeah, that’s when we took ‘em to see Santa Claus and hang out at the senior center.”

      I feel a surge of adrenaline. These men love dogs. Maybe there’s hope I could find Huddie today. “Please, Officer Curtis? Help me find Hudson.”

      “Oh, all right. You’re in this, too, Scrivello.” He puts his phone away, and takes his pad out again, letting out a big sigh.

      “Name and description of the missing person?” he asks me, pen poised.