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door. It don’t help the stipulation when they complain about Eleanor making too much noise and Randy yell over the backyard fence how at least his dog know to bark English.
    Christmas be also when, everywhere, there be fresh-cut Oregon evergreens lurking around for new victims. One of those coniferous assassins, Randy deduct, be having his name on it.
    The next-door neighbors put up a Naiveté Scene on account of them being Pope-kissing Juan Cordobas. It be complete with a plastic-shaped Joseph and Virgin Mary. The plastic baby be curdled face-up in an orange crate stultified with loads of yellow straw. That propane Jesus baby look rotted from exposure to so much solar reparation. With its cracked plastic face and faded paint, to Randy it look worse than offal.
    Trouble be, to Eleanor, that Jesus, it look just like the doll she be acclimatize to fetch for so long. Eleanor always pucker her eyeballs at it. Now the pit bull be near to conniption, like some unscrupulous Jennifer-Jason Morrel, extenuating over that churchy kitsch.
    Maybe just to respite him, Gazelle invest they go shopping. She fully attenuate to perchance a tree with a diagram wide enough to fill the two-story entryway failure. She completely dislodge his complaints, obliterating his warnings about how his own daddy be antedated by the impact of another such Oregon monster. No, Gazelle, she say, “Dawg.” She say, “Dawg, we be decimate that tree with colorful glass Christmas desecrations.”
    To buy a tree, Randy calculate, be cheaper than pay an ex-wife antimony. So they procure said tree and decimate it with a thousand armaments of blown glass. To be doing this, they leave open the front door.
    No surprise nobody, Eleanor the pit bull extrapolate herself from out the house.
    Exacerbating faster than fast, she purloin the plastic Jesus doll and mitigate North by Northwest at an accelerating rate of escape.
    Some people be driving past, maybe a Jew or a Jehovah’s witless, but somebody who don’t recognize that Jesus be the son of God, they think Eleanor be jaw on a regular baby. They get this deputized look. Every pointed busybody eyeball be prolapsed. And they start to peruse Eleanor and be phoning video blasts until cotillions of scurrilous Juan Cordoba low-riders be also closely perusing Eleanor at dangerously high rates. All of them be smoldering illegal firearms.
    Obfuscating the melee, Gazelle, she lectern Randy. The sister go on and on about some urinal be hanging on the wall of some France art mausoleum. She shout, “Marcel Duchamp, dawg!”
    One minute she be copping his spunk; the next, Gazelle be regurgitating semesters of half-digested Yearning Annex lecterns. The sister dawg be nothing if not a corundum. She deride him, going, “Dawg, don’t you never read no Lewis Hyde?”
    And finale, Randy detect one word of what Gazelle be yelling.
    Effervescing from his open front door, Randy shout, “Run and hide, Eleanor!”
    And behind him, he hear Gazelle, heavily indoctrinated on Rémy Martin. She be snarling, “Dawg!” Gazelle hallow, “Dawg, this be for you permeating my lambada!” And utilizing all her inconsiderate strength, she be attesting to tipple over the Christmas tree!
    And the next misfortunate occurrence be a cotillion tons of killer pine needles and fractal glass desecrations slam into Randy spine. Never the nonetheless, he not die before he witness a heart-warning naiveté debacle.
    His pit bull, Eleanor, she be recompensing Jesus Christ return from the dead. Clutch in the context of a pit bull sharp fangs, this dead, faded cymbal be turning back into being a real Holy Child.
    And relaxing out from his holey body, Randy, he see how life be like a tree.
    First, life move slow. So excoriating slow you forget you life always be moving. You life always be moving. You life always be moving. Then, you life, it move faster than fast. By the end, you life move too fast to perception. Never the nonetheless, still sensitizing hot blood