By Amy Palumbo-LeClaire

I’ve noticed that Luke sees the good in me, and in others. He’ll watch how I wrap a present and break into a quiet smile as though to say, “My Mom is so good at folding seams.” He doesn’t notice that I misjudged how much paper I’ll need for the gift size, or that the pattern is off the mark. Instead, he stares up at me with the curiosity of a chimpanzee. 

“Santa is going to bring Luke presents.” His head froze while his mouth stiffened to the thought of Santa Claus, another good person. He knows what Santa looks like and what he stands for. “Look who’s here, Luke!” December brought forth vast displays of Santa Clauses: hip shaking Santas, squeaking Santas, and fire-truck riding Santas.  Goldens behave like children until the age of seven, so it felt okay to play up the red suited hero of his dog-hood. “It’s Santa! It’s Santa!” He raced to every door in the house to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus riding in the back of the fire truck while the siren blared. Luke’s December flame, however, came with exception. 

The Catholic church bishop wore the wrong hat. He looked like Santa. He dressed like Santa. But something was all wrong. Luke noticed the bishop’s “mitre” (a tall ceremonial hat) and growled from the gingerbread table in the basement of my town’s church festival. “GRRR.” 

“Luke, please!” My dog’s suspicion did not belong in the church. “That’s not the real Santa, Momma.” I shushed. I scolded. I hushed. Still, he wouldn’t let it go. 

“Leave it.” I spat the command with firmness, as though we were on a walk and a big dog equally as handsome as Luke was on the other side of the road. Then I distracted him with another clutch tactic. I broke a gingerbread boy in half and gently placed it in his unearned mouth. He inhaled an arm and salivated. Call it a bribe, but the bishop became a distant memory. (It’s worth a mention that Luke’s discrimination does not rest solely on a Catholic Church bishop. He doesn’t care for, or accept, Mrs. Claus. Perhaps, her hair bun does not work for him).  

Luke may have a few quirky preferences but, thankfully, he sees the good in most dogs, especially small ones. I’ve never owned (or particularly cared for) little dogs, especially those with rattling barks. Perhaps the gurgling and growling chihuahua who lived in the window of my childhood neighbor’s home has led to my—distaste? Lack of understanding? —ignorance? —of small dogs. Hear me out. Little Chico had eyes that bulged while he choked on his own venomous growls. I don’t know how much that doggie in the window cost, but one thing was for certain. Chico was certifiably crazy. His temper was hotter than a habanero. His growl was a low murmur, a ticking time bomb that haunted me. I never knew when Chico would snap and plummet through the window to grab my leg while I delivered the newspaper. However ruthless, I’m convinced Luke would have loved little Chico. He allows them to snarl, jump up his chest and tap dance around him. “Those little dudes are hyper, but I love ‘em to pieces.” Perhaps as a big dog, Luke doesn’t feel the need to compete with them. He only picks on dogs his own size. The cat has been a small friend of even greater intrigue.

“Where’d you go? Why’d you hide? Can we be just friends?” I’ve always worried about the cat picking on Luke because of his size. His exuberance has sent crafty cats up trees, under beds, and behind closed doors. 

A black cat named Regina, his first love, once emerged from her hiding spot to allow Luke to stare at her. The two locked eyes for timeless moments. “I won’t hurt you. Promise. I just want to tell you that you have the most beautiful green eyes.” 

Luke is certainly not perfect. But his ability to see the good in others is something I hope will continue to rub off on me, just like the blonde hairs on my black clothing. 

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