… not for life.
Poor Diarmuid, I cannot help but feel sorry for him.
I see him walk his Christmas tree each and every day, same time, same lap, same love for his needled friend.
It’s quite incredible how much of a bond has developed between these two over the last three weeks.
I’d like to find the courage to go up to Diarmuid and tactfully explain to him that the life span of a Christmas tree is far shorter than that of a Labrador.
That they usually start losing their needles after a month.
That they rapidly swap their freshly cut Christmas tree smell for a far less desirable “old tree” smell.
That they become fussy about what they eat.
That they lose their stamina.
That they become incontinent.
And quite frankly that’s a pine in the arse.
But I have learned not to have any more frank conversations with people who do not want to hear what you are trying to say, no matter how true it is. Especially if it is true.
So I watch Diarmuid walk his tree. And I cannot help feeling a little bit sad.
Because Christmas is well and truly over, and he does not seem to be willing to admit it.