I’m excited cuz this column is definitely a first for me: I have an ol fren, Denali, who’s a working sled dog living in Alaska. Just before Christmas he sent me a Woofmail about a cool fren of his with an interesting job, who would agree to an exclusive innerview if I was interested. Of course I was, I replied, asking if his fren was, perhaps, a member of his sled team.
“No,” he answered, “her name’s Vikki and she’s a member of another famous team: She’s the first fee-male to qualify for Santa’s reindeer team. (Vikki’s short for Vixen.)”
I was gobsmacked. All I could manage was a semi-coherent “Wait! Wha-at? She’s WHAT? Seriously? Are you woofin’ me right now?”
When I recovered sufficiently, we switched to Facetime. Denali was laughing. “No Woof, Bonz.
You hafta meet her at an Undisclosed Location, for obvious reasons, and agree never to disclose it, under penalty of no treats in your Christmas stocking forever.”
“AGREED!” I instantly replied. “So, now what?”
On the designated day, necessary details in hand, I met Miss Vikki Claus, my very first reindeer (she prefers reindoe), and had the most amazing innerview of my entire career.
It was cold, snowy an, well, I hafta say “magical” at the Undisclosed Location: a huge beautiful barn where Santa’s team lives, preparing all year long for The Big Night. I probly shouldn’t have been surprised, but I WAS, when I was greeted by three elves – Chloe, Gregor and Bob – and escorted into the warm (Thank Lassie) barn. Walkin’ toward me was this gorgeous creature: soft brown an cream hair; dark, slender legs up to HERE, hooves covered with fluffy hair; big gold/green eyes; and a pair of graceful antlers that curved like a crown above her gentle face.
“Miss Vikki,” Chloe said, “meet Bonzo, a famuss journalist from the state of Florida where, if you can buh-leeve it, they don’t have snow. Or fee-ORDS. Or glaciers.”
Vikki’s voice floated toward me like hundreds of tinkling bells. I was sincerely hoping I could relocate my own voice sooner rather than later.
“Welcome, welcome to my home, Mr. Bonzo. When Denali told me about you I decided it was the perfect opportunity to tell my story. Our story, ackshully. It’s been hundreds of years in the making.”
“I am incredibly honored to meet you, Miss Vikki, and a liddle overwhelmed,” I admitted, looking about the wonderful barn: pristine stalls lining either side of a broad, garland adorned walkway, festive Christmas tack, a thick red blanket and a name hanging neatly by each. “I’m beyond excited to hear your story.”
“I am eager to share it,” she replied, gesturing me into her spacious stall. Chloe, Gregor and Bob took seats on a heap of golden straw as I opened my notebook.
“I am a Finnish forest reindeer,” Vikki began. “Over the centuries, many of my family, all boys, had been honored to serve on Santa’s team. My great, great, great, great grandfather was the original Dasher. It was the dream of every young reindeer boy. Whenever I saw one of my brothers head to the North Pole to try out for a coveted place on The Team, I’d wish I could someday get the chance.
“However, up till then, the sleigh team was an All-Boys’ Club. It’d always been that way. Then one day, waving goodbye to our brothers, me an my girlfrens decided we were just as smart and strong as them. (Plus, unlike stubborn males, when we get lost, we ask directions, a crucial characteristic when visiting every family in the entire world in one night. One year, pre-me, they were headed for Boise and ended up in Tahiti. Believe me, THAT was a major kerfluffle.)
So why shouldn’t WE have a shot at The Big League?”
“What did you do?” I asked, totally absorbed in her story.
“We girls crafted a detailed argument against gender bias; listed reasons why females were as qualified as males; if not more, to serve on the Sleigh Team; formed a delegation; and travelled to the North Pole to present it in person to The Man. Santa listened to our proposal and, as we munched molasses-and-clover biscuits, studied our documents. He put his finger on the side of his nose and nodded, but remained reluctant to change tradition. Over the years we persisted until, at last, Santa agreed! Victory was ours! He opened one position on the team, we all tried out for it, and I won!”
“What’s it like being the only doe on the team?”
“I stood my ground. I had to show them I could pull my share. Uncle Dash, Prancer, Comet and Donner were fine with it. Dancer and Cupid REALLY loved it, especially the glitter and bells I put on my red harness. The three of us frequently get together for hot cocoa. Blitzen, well, it took a while. He’s Old School. I’m Besties with Rudolph, ever since I convinced everyone there’s no truth to the rumor his nose is the result of off-hours frolicking. It is actually a genetic condition, and I always carry Kleenex and special protective cream to keep it glowing.”
“Now that the holiday rush is over, what does the team do till next year?”
“After the required post-Christmas delivery assessment with Santa, we decompress here at the barn for a while. Then we go out to pasture, and begin another year of intensive training to keep our bodies in shape and our minds quick. You have to when you’re expected to lug a big sleigh stuffed with tons of toys and a driver who is, to put it politely, no slender reed, all while flying ‘like the down of a thistle’ and landing lightly on millions of houses so as not to scare the gingerbread out of the humans below or damage the roof.”
Heading home over the snowy undisclosed mountains, lollypop forests, toy assembly workshops and elf cottages, I realized it made perfect sense for reindoes to be a vital part of Santa’s annual flight; and perhaps some Christmas Eve, it’ll be an All-Doe team guiding Santa through the night sky.
Till next time,
