The holiday season in the city is terrifying for a little dog with an absentminded, albeit exceedingly loving, old lady for an owner. As Christmas draws nearer, the sidewalks fill with hurried, harried shoppers who must use every bit of their concentration to negotiate checking their lists, talking on their cell phones, avoiding bumping into one another, and keeping from being run over by furious taxis. They simply haven’t the ability to watch out for wee creatures padding along the sidewalk beside their owners. So a little dog with a distracted elderly urban owner must be constantly alert and tirelessly agile or it will certainly be crushed beneath an unknowing boot.

Dogs tend not to be Christian. Christianity offers them little, and, as Christian doctrine agrees, they haven’t the capacity to accept Jesus as their savior. Yet, as has been described, during December, little dogs belonging to inattentive city-dwelling octogenarians are in more need than humans of saviors, guardian angels, and all of the other boons that Christianity offers its adherents. Little dogs, therefore, tend to be fairly devout, subscribing to an alternate religion whose details are unclear, but which affords them each one wish per year.

Most little dogs, lacking a broad understanding of their situation, or belonging to young, focused, country folk, spend these wishes on juicy bones or scratches behind the ears. One year, one little dog, however--the one, in fact, that inspired this story to be written--, was fed up with spending the two weeks before Christmas dodging heels and fearing for his life. He wished to breathe fire. How his life changed then!

When he heard the clinking of the buckle on his leash and Mrs. Tilly’s affectionate voice calling, "Come on, Gordie. It’s time for our walk," the little dog ran to her side, yapping, as he did most of the year, instead of cowering in the closet as he had been all winter. Mrs. Tilly hooked the leash to his collar and Gordie hopped with excitement as they rode down in the elevator. Then Mrs. Tilly said good morning to the doorman and they were finally out in the brisk, cold air.

After marking his territory, Gordie followed Mrs. Tilly down to the corner of the big avenue where the shoppers were in full bustle. For once, he was not afraid. He walked along casually, sniffing anything that caught his snout’s attention and enjoying the sounds and motion of the busy street.

Suddenly, it happened. He glanced up and saw a dirty, black rubber sole bearing down on him. He did not panic. Nor did he frantically hurry out of the way. Instead, he lifted up his mouth and exhaled a thick stream of flame. The rubber smoked and melted and the shoe briefly caught on fire. The stench of burning filled Gordie’s nostrils. With glee, he heard a shout from far above and watched as the foot was jerked back whence it had come.

As Gordie had hoped, Mrs. Tilly was oblivious to the cursing man beside her and continued on as if nothing had happened. Gordie, though, was unable to suppress his curiosity and craned his neck back to look. The man was red-faced and grimacing, holding his foot, and looking around to find someone to yell at. But there was no one. Of course he didn’t suspect the little dog walking along with the clueless old woman. In fact, he still didn’t seem to notice that Gordie was there.

The little dog chuckled in a doggish way and snuggled up to Mrs. Tilly’s leg. This was turning out to be, by far, the best Christmas he had ever known. Never again would he wish for a silly chew toy. Mrs. Tilly always stuffed plenty in his stocking anyway.