Growing up my sister, brother and I wouldn’t just leave milk and cookies for Santa. We would leave carrots and raisins, too — for the reindeer, of course.
We were much more interested in catching those sleigh-hauling, four-legged flyers in our home than Santa himself.
At night we would lay in our twin beds, carefully listening for the clip-clop on the hardwood, sniffing the air for the unmistakable musk of a big animal. Eventually, we would drift off to sleep. Then, in the dark morning, we would spring awake, shoot downstairs and — just as we had expected — Santa had cleaned his plate, but the reindeer had barely touched their snacks.
We knew their tricks, though.
Past the tree and into the kitchen we would slide in our socks; and sure enough, those reindeer had gotten into the cat food — again — evidenced by the spilled bag of kibble surrounded by charcoal hoof prints.
Contented with the Christmas magic sprinkled across the linoleum, we would turn our attention back to the tree — all the while vowing that the next year would be the one when we would finally catch those reindeer in the act.