The dog under the tree wasn't the precious pooch I was hoping for... so I took matters into my own hands.

Christmases have a way of becoming monikered. For example, I recall The Christmas Aunt Molly Visited and The Christmas Janet Got Engaged. For me, however, the most outstanding was the one I called The Christmas of the China Dog.

Twelve years old at the time, I had a longing, a passion that held me in its grasp. From my earliest recollections I'd been ena-moured with canines. One of my favourite baby photos shows me beside a big, white stuffed dog. He's in a chair, and I'm standing beside him. The pose speaks volumes about my regard for Fluffy.

As I came of an age to be allowed to play outside alone, I'd stand at the gate and wait for a dog-any dog-to pass by, then try to lure him into the yard to play. When I'd asked, begged and pleaded for a dog of my own, my parents simply replied that I was too young for the responsibility. But this year I'd reached the age of baby-sitting maturity. Surely someone who could be trusted alone with small children could be judged capable of caring for a chewing, piddling puppy?

I had good reason to hope that December; all the signs were there. My parents, being especially secretive, were definitely conspiring something big and exciting.

Oh sure, there was only one mysterious box for me under the tree (the rest with my name on them were readily identifiable as books and clothes), but that, I deduced in my fanciful mind, contained a collar and leash. On Christmas morning my collie puppy would be brought into the living room, a big red bow around his neck. I'd name him Prince and he and I would never be separated…except of course for the demands of church and school.

I didn't think I would survive the week before Christmas. Dreams of my precious pooch replaced the legendary sugarplums. I tingled, I hugged myself, I burst into song at odd and, often for those around me, inappropriate moments. Although I occasionally caught my parents casting puzzled glances at me, they appeared too absorbed in their own exuberance to be overly concerned.

Sometimes, when no one was looking, I'd steal into the living room, take the box from beneath the tree, and stroke it gently, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

The big day arrived. My father, distributing the presents as usual, kept glancing over at my mother with a bemused smile. In my memory, they'd always had the ability to communicate without words, and now I was certain I knew what they were both anticipating.

Finally all the gifts had been distributed, unwrapped, exclaimed over, and set aside…all except one small box. The best for last, I thought, and wondered where they'd kept the puppy hidden. At our neighbour's? That had to be it. Reassured, I willed myself to stay calm and relax.

After what seemed like hours, my father picked up the little box. I held my breath. "Gail," he said, his expression mirroring all the happiness I was feeling in my soul. "Your mother and I have something to tell you."

Yes, yes, oh yes, please get on with it! My heart hammered. I was barely able to breathe.

"You're going to have a baby brother or sister."

Astounded, I could only gape at them. A bucket of ice water hitting me in the face couldn't have come as more of a shock. What was my father saying? I'd been an only child all my life. Now suddenly….

My father handed me the box. "We know how much you love dogs…" he continued softly.

Apparently he and my mother had feared a negative response to their announcement, and had been saving the puppy presentation until afterwards. I revived sufficiently to tear off the wrappings, my prospective sibling momentarily unimportant. They could have their baby; I'd have my dog.

I pawed at the tissue paper inside the box-where was that collar and leash? At the bottom of it all, I found a gold and white china dog. My heart plummeted.

I held the cold figurine in my hands and looked up at my parents. "I thought…" I let the dog fall back into its tissue-paper bed. Overwhelmed by disappointment, I fled to my room.

My father found me there a half-hour later. He was carrying the china dog.

"I wanted a real dog!" I sobbed. "Nothing else! No baby, no china dog! Just a real, live dog!"

"Gail, real dogs get old and die." My father's voice was soft as he told me about the husky named Jack he'd had as a boy, and the terrible pain he'd suffered when the old dog died. "I don't want you to get hurt. My own father recited a bit of a poem to me just before I got Jack. I wish I'd paid attention. It went something like this, 'Brothers and sisters, I tell you beware; never give your heart to a dog to tear.' He was right."

"Oh, but Daddy, think of all the love and happiness in between!"

He arose with a weary sigh, and took out a crisp $20 bill from his wallet. A child of the Great Depression, he still believed money could heal a lot of ills.

"Buy whatever you want," he said resignedly, handing it to me.

With a pang of guilt, I realized I'd let my distress taint what for him and my mother must have been a glorious time. They'd wanted another child for more than a decade and now, finally, they would have one. I took the money, knowing that to refuse it would only hurt him more.

After Dad left my room, I sat down amid stacks of dog books, fingering the money absently. His words echoed back to me: "Buy whatever you want."

Suddenly, as it had so often done and would continue to do throughout my life, inspiration struck. The next morning, on Boxing Day, I donned warm clothes and headed up the street to the home of our town's veterinarian.

Over supper that evening I asked Dad if he would drive me to Douglastown the following day. I was so full of trepidation and anticipation that I thought my words were trembling.

 "Why?" he asked, looking up from his turkey potpie. "Do you have a friend you want to visit?"

"Yes, well…no…well, sort of. But not just visit. I want to bring him back here…to live."

Both parents stopped eating and stared me. "Live?"

My mother, not easily daunted, obviously was this time.

"Yes." I drew a deep breath and summoned all my courage. "He's a puppy…half German shepherd and half collie…with something wrong with his tail. I bought him yesterday."

Two forks clattered onto matching Christmas plates.

My father was the first to find words. "You what?"

"You said I could buy anything I wanted with that $20." I felt alternately hot and cold, shaky and solid, but I'd come too far to turn back now. "So I went to see Dr. Jarvis. I told him I wanted to buy a collie pup but he said a purebred would cost more than $20. He said he knew a lady in Douglastown who had one German shepherd/collie puppy left for sale, and she might let me have him for $20 because he'd been born with a crooked tail. So he called her and she said yes, and he told her I'd pick him up tomorrow."

At that point I ran out of breath. The tightness in my chest and throat overwhelmed me. I glanced from my mother to my father and then down at my plate. I couldn't bear to let them see my expression if they vetoed my purchase.

Silence held our kitchen in its grip. Cars swished by on the street outside, the refrigerator started and the furnace kicked in. I felt as if I would surely die if they didn't speak soon.

"You did say she could buy whatever she wanted," my mother finally said. "And we are having the baby. She deserves something special of her own, too."

My heartbeat began to upgrade from a weak flutter to a steady drumbeat.

"Yes, yes, I know what I said." My father arose and went to the stove to refill his teacup. My pulse pounded in my ears. Please, please, please. My thoughts became a chant.

When he finally turned back toward the table, he paused, then sighed and gave a cautious smile. "Okay," he said.

All but upsetting his tea, I rushed over to hug him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I'll take care of him. You'll never have to do a thing…after you take me to Douglastown."

The next morning I headed out to get my very own dog. It was love at first sight. It didn't matter that Prince was the runt of the litter or that he had a crooked tail. It didn't matter that he wasn't a purebred. It only mattered that he was mine and I was his, and we'd be friends for as long as we both lived.

That spring my brother was born. Our family was complete and happy-but it was not to last. Six months later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and 18 months after that, she died.

I overheard people commenting on how brave I was, as I went about caring for my little brother and helping my aunt move into our home to become our housekeeper. My father, overwhelmed by grief, barely seemed to notice. He was in his late 30s when he married. I think he'd been afraid to give his heart to anyone. His mother had died young, leaving his father a life-long grieving widower.

But he'd met my mother, and love must have overcome his fear of loss. The bond they'd formed had been deep and unfailing-until now. Immersed in sorrow, he left my brother in my aunt's care, and me largely on my own.

During the day I appeared stoic, handling my grief with dignity. But at night, alone with Prince in my room, I'd put my arms around his neck and sob into his soft warm coat, clinging to his broad, solid shoulders. The leftover puppy with the crooked tail would snuggle close.

Prince continued to be there for me in the months and years that followed. He heard the joys and pain of numerous teenage romances, and the words read aloud from Hilroy scribblers, kept hidden under the bed. And when my father slowly began to surface from the pain of my mother's passing, Prince befriended him as well. Dad owned a service station downtown and often, while I was in school, Prince would accompany him to work.

The years passed. As my father had predicted, Prince grew old. Then, one day shortly before Christmas in his 14th year, he left us forever. That evening, I found my father sitting alone in the kitchen staring down at the old dog's collar he held clutched in his hands.

"You were right, Dad," I said, my words choked with tears and bitterness. "Real dogs just die and break your heart. I should have been content with the china one."

He looked up at me, turning the worn old collar over in his hands. There were tears in his eyes.

"No, you were right," he said softly. "You understood that the lifelong love and joy, which come before, are worth it."

This story will form part of a collection of Gail MacMillan's Christmas stories called Yuletide Yarns (Dream Catcher Publishing), slated for release next Christmas(2009).