Jesus recounted the money from his jeans pocket.
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We will celebrate the birth of the Son with a fine feast, like the Americans on TV do!" This year we'll not make do with stringy sage hen. Store-bought and naked, like Father used to bring home.
"I will buy Mother a fine turkey for our Christmas feast, Donkey. The mingled aromas, particularly the earthy sage, made his mouth water, hastening his decision. The air sagged heavy with the fragrances of sage, yucca, with hints of piñon and conifer drifting down from the high forests. The high llano, nubby with scrub, garbed in barely differentiated muted tones, coalesced under a turquoise-tinged sky. The day was fine and unusually warm for late December. "Dogs have enough on their minds, eh, Donkey?" He reached down to scratch the top of Donkey's head. Donkey's gaping yawn and cockeyed smile reminded Jesus that for all a dog's sensitivities, they consider human issues quaint and trivial. "Have you given any more thought about what I should get Mama for Christmas?" the boy asked the dog. Inez, Jesus's madre, did not understand the majesty of dogs, and wasn't exactly overjoyed at Donkey's uninvited intrusion, but, much to her credit, she didn't interfere, aware that matters between dogs and boys are not for mothers to question. It was well known that dogs as special as Donkey have very high standards when it came to choosing a boy. It was Donkey who did the picking, showing up unannounced and making himself at home. Donkey wasn't really his dog, in so much as he didn't raise him from a pup or pick him out at the pound. Jesus, and his splotched dog Donkey, walked the familiar path toward the town of Santa Lucia in New Mexico's high desert.
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