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

the loop of the leash in his muzzle. He stands there, staring.

      “No, I won’t do it.” I cross my arms in defiance.

      “Both you and Aunt Miranda need to learn to respect my boundaries.”

      No response.

      “I know you don’t need to do business. You always hold it until 11:30.”

      More staring.

      “The answer is no.” I turn my back on him. “Schedules are healthy. I read that all the best parents keep their children on schedules. I had no parameters when I was little, no rules. I read in Psychology Today that can make you feel unsafe.” I peek over my shoulder.

      Hudson hasn’t moved a muscle. I wonder if he’s breathing. He doesn’t even blink.

      “Hudson…”

      Still as a statue.

      “Oh, OK!” I heave myself out of my desk chair and pull my coat from the rack.

      Hudson breaks his freeze, and begins a frenzy of circling, first one way, and then the other. I crack up. “Do you love me?” I ask him. He runs at me, and banks off my calf. He’s scratching frantically at my leg, as if to climb me. I know he wants to give me a kiss, so I bend down so we’re nose to nose. He gives me a bounty of face-licks, then stretches his neck out so it fits in the crook of my own. He rubs his cheek against mine, with a few upward jerks. “Aw … huggies!” I say. It’s a thing we do. “You do love me! Sweet boy. OK, we’re going out,” I explain, pulling on my knit hat, “but we’re not going to the dog park. This is just a quick relief break, then I’m coming back to make coffee, and get back to work. Got it?”

      I click the ring of his leash onto his harness, and hold open the door.

      “Did you hear me? Five minutes. That’s final.”

      For a quick second, his eyes twinkle before he bounds onto the landing, and skitters down the stairs.

      *****

      Scratching to get in the park gate, Hudson pulls hard on his leash as I juggle my Starbucks flat white. It spills all over my mittens.

      “Huddie, there’s a reason we make coffee at home. You talked me into leaving the house against my will, can you at least be patient?” I fumble with first one gate, then another. There are always two gates at dog runs: Opening them one at a time contains the “flight risks.” Once we’re inside, I squat down try to unfasten the ring on Hudson’s leash, while maintaining my balance. A man with sunny reddish-blonde, curly hair and warm, brown eyes smiles at me. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

      “He’s a handful, all right,” I mumble. Hudson whines impatiently.

      “Doesn’t the run look fantastic? The community board pitched in funds for all these twinkle lights and the decorations. I hardly recognize the place with all the Christmas trimmings.”

      I take a minute to glance around. It’s breathtaking. The chain-link fence is festooned with glowing shapes made from strings of lights: A dog bone, the outline of a dog, a dog’s face, a dog dish that says “Spot,” on it. And there are various sizes of Christmas tree in every corner, decorated with strings of popcorn.

      “Oh, wow,” I whisper involuntarily.

      “I know, right? I heard they chose popcorn for the trees since it’s biodegradable. Peeing on them is encouraged. By the dogs, of course. Merry Christmas to them.”

      Now I'm on my knees in the dirt and gravel, still struggling to free Hudson. I perch my coffee carefully on a large rock.

      “Listen, Puppy Dog,” I say, “you have to stop pulling if you want me to undo this.” He’s spied some of his neighborhood dog friends and he’s eager to get into the mix.

      “Hold still,” I tell him. “And before you run off, remember this: We’re only staying five minutes. Don’t look at me like that. I know I said that before, but I really do mean it. Pay attention to the time. I don’t want to have to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

      He’s panting with expectation, and his curled tongue and open mouth form a goofy grin. I finally manage to free him from his restraint, and he races toward the clump of canines like a shot. He jumps up to nip the nape of a young Great Dane’s neck, and the oversized pup swings around playfully, nearly taking out a couple of Chihuahuas with his huge feet. The look of sheer joy on Hudson’s face as he throws himself into the throng of dogs makes me smile. The blonde guy catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He thinks I was smiling at him!

      “Oh, no,” I mumble, waving my hand as if to erase the moment. “I was… well, my dog…” I say pointing.

      Embarrassed, I take a seat on one of the benches along the edge of the fence. The air is cold, but it’s warm in the midmorning winter sun. I loosen my scarf and take in the twinkly scene, trying to relax. I can’t help looking at my watch. I really wanted to start baking by now. I eat lunch at one and this unplanned trip is throwing off my schedule. There is no way I’m going to the tree lighting. Relax, I tell myself. Five minutes, I promise myself. Five minutes.

      Not far away, groups of school children are filing off of yellow buses and up the path to the Natural History Museum. They’re nearly as frisky as the puppies in the park. I don’t imagine much schoolwork gets done in the run-up to Christmas.

      On the corner of 81st, a group of musicians circle up and take out instruments, setting their cases in a bunch near a handler. A mom sits on the bench opposite me, and lifts her toddler out of a stroller. He’s wearing a knitted hat with reindeer antlers attached. The baby babbles and points at me. I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink.

      “Yes, that’s a pretty lady,” the mom says. The baby squeals, delighted, and points again. I wish the baby would focus on someone else. I pretend to be concentrating on picking Hudson out of the pack. Four more minutes, I tell myself, picking at a thread on my sweater sleeve.

      Hudson comes tearing toward me, running so fast that he’s scooping up gravel and flinging it behind himself with every bound. He comes to a stop and bangs into my knees. He shakes all over, and looks up at me, tongue still curled, goofy smile still in place.

      “Hello, my baby,” I say, scratching his ears. “Are you having fun?” My shoulders drop. Maybe we can stay for 10 minutes. It makes him so happy.

      “Who’s a good boy?” I bend down to let him lick my cheek and I nuzzle his whiskery snout. “You’re a good boy, right Hudson?”

      “His name is Hudson? That’s my son’s name!” The guy with the curly blonde hair comes walking up to the bench. I straighten up, and look at his face. He’s handsome, and I cannot pull my eyes away. Seconds pass as I try to think of something to say that won’t sound weird.

      C’mon Charlotte, I coach myself, he’s waiting. It’s been awhile since I’ve made conversation with a guy. Or anyone, really. I try to think of the last time I talked to someone face-to-face. Was it yesterday? The day before? I’m still staring. He’s still waiting. Just say something, I tell myself. Anything.

      “I named him after the deli where I found him,” I finally blurt. “He’d been living in the trash.”

      “Hey, that’s what happened with my son!”

      I stiffen, and suck in some air. “Really? I’m so sorry…or I guess, I mean, that’s great…?”

      He bursts out with a deep belly laugh. “I’m joking!” He sits down on the bench beside me. Hudson is my ex-wife’s surname, so we thought, you know, since he’d have my last name, that it was nice that he’d have something of hers. Do you have kids?”

      “No,” I say simply. I don’t elaborate, but I feel like he’s waiting for more of an explanation. He probably thinks something’s wrong with me. I want to tell him that I’m not even married, but saying that might sound like I’m coming on to him.