Rub a Dub Dub.

I simply don’t have time for this.

There are 11 days – 264 hours – until the big man in red is supposed to jam his cranberried belly down our chimney and I have 11,264 things still left to do. 

(That’s also about the number of unopened and answered emails. If you’re wondering when I’m getting back to you, let’s just assume the response won’t be coming home for Christmas.)

But, really, I don’t have 264 hours. Subtract work – running an undesirable 11 hours a day right now – and sleep – all of six hours, at best – and we’re down to 77 hours. Minus the three hours a week of workout time I am clinging to and we’re down another 15 to 62. Take out the 25 hours I’ll be at the rink for the kids over the next 11 days. Subtract familial commitments between now and then. Remove the overnight trip for work that has unexpectedly landed on my calendar.

13 hours. That’s all I’ve got. And I’m about to lose 20 minutes more.

A year ago, Santa finally caved. After two years of unrelenting puppy-dog-eyed pleading – driven home by the guilt-tripping haranguing of those who made me feel worthless as a parent for not providing a puppy for my oh-so-not-deprived children and who do not spend any time in the eye of the storm that is my frantic existence – Cocoa arrived. She was sweet and perfect.

For about 13 hours.

Our pocket-sized pooch is now 55 pounds of unbridled energy and far too many smarts. She is my daughter … with a fur coat. Her spider-eating episode cost me a grand and gifted our vet with both enjoyment and the genesis of an academic paper. She races in circles before jettisoning herself off the trampoline. Our gardener begins each visit reviewing a bag full of irrigation system parts collected since his last visit, an exercise in his ability to remember and repair what’s supposed to – but isn’t – stay beneath the ground. She’s torn apart every holiday delivery that UPS has decided to leave behind the gate. And now I’m supposed to find a way to wash her with a medicated shampoo that needs to stay on her for about 15 minutes before rinsing.

There are many things missing from my seasonal dose of merriment, and a glass of red and a bubble bath are just about the only guilty pleasures that haven’t been sacrificed for the greater good. And even those are few and far between. There is no avoiding the fact that my last sanctuary is about to be desecrated, and there’s a good chance I will be maimed in the process. And, right now, neither one of us wants a bath.

“Cocoa, please cooperate. Just once. Because I really can’t take any more right now.”

Sliding her silky head beneath my hand and resting it on my knee, her lime-green eyes stare back at me as though she understands my plea for calm and cooperation.

“DAMN IT, COCOA!!!!”