For as long as I can remember, animals have been a vital part of this season for me. I remember the decorations from when I was little (some of which I still have)—plush penguins, swans, geese, polar bears and puppies decked with scarves.
The tree was always covered in ornaments of winter birds, forest animals, owls, and, above all, dogs. The lowest branches held jingle bells that our actual family dogs could brush against when they wanted to join the festivities, and Christmas morning meant wagging tails and cold, wet noses snuffling into wrapping paper as everyone opened their presents.
The dogs loved their own gifts, of course—biscuits and chew toys that I had wrapped specially for them—but they were just as eager to investigate ours. One memorable winter, my family even took care of a turtle. Rocket was often allowed to roam freely on the first floor, but her favorite place to sit was under the Christmas tree. The memory makes me smile each time I think of it.
And right there is why I turn toward animals each December—why I fill my home with them, why I yearn to see them outdoors. Animals give joy. They bring a flash of color and life when so much of the world lies dormant, when nights are long and days are bitterly cold.
Right outside my patio door, the dull brown-and-white landscape awakens each morning as blue jays swoop in for peanuts and woodpeckers lay claim to suet and sunflower seeds. Squirrels track all over the ground, seizing whatever delicacies they can. The other day, not 24 hours after a fresh snowfall, our entire yard was crisscrossed by tiny pawprints. One set led over the patio and up to our sliding glass door. I pictured a squirrel peering into the house, as they sometimes do. Did it see our Christmas tree and imagine curling up warmly in the branches?
I love taking walks this time of year. Fewer animals are out than during the summer months, but those that do emerge are even more beautiful. Half hidden by snowy branches, the bright red feathers of a cardinal seem to glow. A purple finch subtly warms the muted light, while a barred owl shows its perfect camouflage against the winter-bare branches.
While any animal sighting is precious, some are rarer than others. These are the ones most deeply emblazoned on my memory. A fox loping nimbly through the snow on Christmas morning, a quartet of graceful trumpeter swans gliding over a lake on New Year’s Eve—images such as these stay with me, becoming part of the fabric of this season.
Once, when I was somewhere in my late teens, my dad and I took a walk through a nearby college campus. The temperatures had recently plummeted, so that a pond on the campus froze hard and clear. We walked out onto the ice, peering down into the inky-black water below. To our astonishment, a large pollywog rippled up from the depths, skimmed along the ice for a moment, then disappeared. We watched, entranced, as more and more pollywogs made this same mysterious journey. They swam right beneath our feet, separated from us only by several inches of transparent ice. I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since.
My dad and I often reminisce about that magical afternoon, especially when this time of year rolls around. It’s a season for memories, for family—for animals.
