My dad liked animals and believed it was good for children to have pets – not necessarily to “teach responsibility” as was the standard justification at the time, but simply to enjoy them and to learn about the creatures we share our world with. We enjoyed our own motley zoo consisting of mice, turtles, snakes, squirrels, rabbits, a one-legged chicken, various caged birds, uncounted cats and, over time, dozens of dogs. When I was about twelve, I became the proud owner of an obstreperous Dalmatian that I named Buttons. The breed has the reputation of loving the company of horses and of being “one-man dogs.” Assuming that Buttons would choose me automatically, as I was his owner, I had to eventually accept the fact that he preferred my dad.

Since our only equine at the time was a tired old pony that preferred to spend most of his time snoozing among mulberry bushes in the hog pasture, Buttons decided that our two milk cows and their calves were more fun and developed the habit of chasing them around the barnyard and pasture, a habit that Dad considered unacceptable. One day, when shouting at Buttons was having no effect on his misbehavior, Dad picked up a stick about a yard long and threw it in the dog’s general direction. The stick somehow wedged itself between Buttons’ legs and sent him sprawling head over heels. Dad was magic! Buttons maintained a bewildered respect for Dad’s mysterious powers and never again tried to round up the cows. But that didn’t stop him from chasing the chickens.

We had a nice, cozy hen house with perches, laying boxes and heat lamps in winter. Since eggs were gathered daily, broody hens who were determined to raise chicks tended to establish hidden nests in the hay-loft of the little barn. Each morning, Dad would toss down hay to the manger below where the cows munched in their stanchions while awaiting Dad with his milk bucket. Any hens currently residing in the hay-loft were usually rousted out by Dad’s activities and ended up on the ground floor with the cows – and Buttons. One frosty December morning, Buttons attacked a hen who found herself in that situation and Dad, busy with the cows, swung a foot at the dog in an effort to stop the attack. The hay-fork, which had been propped against the ladder-like steps to the loft, just happened to be in line with the kick. One of its shiny tines entered the top side of Dad’s heavy leather work boot and came out through the sole just below the ball of his foot.

Christmas morning, in spite of our childhood enthusiasms, was made up of long-standing rituals. Beginning with the turning on of the living room ceiling light and the colored lights on the Christmas tree, the hallway door where we had been impatiently waiting was opened and we rushed to the tree, grabbed up our bulging stockings and began investigating their contents. We girls each had our own “side” of the tree, marked by our filled stockings and a small pile of unwrapped goodies from Santa himself. Our gifts from each other and a few aunts, uncles and grandmas were always wrapped and stacked on top of the upright piano, awaiting distribution by Dad as soon as we had finished eating breakfast.

That year, things were different. Dad was seated in his big recliner with his very sore foot elevated and he could do nothing but watch. He had often before been on the floor with us, marveling at the “unexpected” gifts from Santa and often playing with some new toy he had, no doubt, purchased because it intrigued him. That year he was reduced to being an observer, and I saw tiny glitters of tears in his eyes. I had expected that Mother would have taken over the task of distributing all the gifts piled on the piano, but she delegated that job to Dorothy, the oldest of us girls, who performed it with unexpected solemnity. Mother seemed to play a new role in the ritual too, appearing to distract Dad – or maybe comfort him? On that extraordinary Christmas day I came to see Christmas morning through our parents’ eyes, and it has had that deeper meaning for me ever since.