The season

Being a curmudgeon, I normally don't write holiday glop. But a couple of days ago, the temporary Cannonfire offices had a visitor -- a nearly-nine year old girl, granddaughter of a friend. The girl hit it off with my dog Bella, who is also nearly nine.

Bella remains a puppy at heart, healthy and energetic. She loves to visit parks off-leash and run. She runs wide circles and figure eights. She runs for the ecstasy of speed. No human being has ever been able to catch her, until the little girl in the photo came along.

Although this year has not been good for me, the holiday season has been good indeed, better than a scoundrel like myself deserves. It's been good for others as well. I see many happy people around me.

And yet they all share my sense of unease, as though these are the last good times Americans may know before the entire superstructure of our lives rots beneath our feet. We still put up lights, make fudge, roast turkeys -- but we punctuate these activities with jokes (that are not jokes) about the possibility of soon being relegated to sleeping in the car: "Glad I bought an SUV..."

Where will we be next year?

Probably not in a good place. The way ahead looks unpleasant.

So don't look in that direction.

That's the message of the girl and the dog in the picture. Children grow up. Puppies will one day stop running quite so fast. So don't think about that time; think about this time.

I am a political animal, and politically speaking, I am not a happy man. My party has betrayed its principles. My country, which not long ago openly called itself an empire, now stands mired in financial sludge.

I also used to operate under the delusion that I had talent. That is to say, I used to draw rather well -- well enough to make a living at it. Now the engine refuses to start. At night, I dream that I am back at the ad agency, trying desperately to draw a simple triangle. (For some absurd reason, that's the project in the dream: drawing a triangle.) But it always comes out wrong.

And then I wake up.

The dog licks my face. Endlessly. I greet each morning wearing a mask of puppy saliva.

A few hours later, a friend shows up with her granddaughter and everyone who meets the little girl spoils her rotten. I cook a pot roast. We go for a drive at night. We sing Christmas music while we scope out gaudy seasonal displays. I wonder if I'll get the chance to tell the girl the story of the Christmas meteor. Have I told that story in these pages...? Well, maybe one day...

Joy is parceled out in moments. That's all we get. Small moments, mere moments, subtle moments, transitory moments.

Live in them.