A Dog-Gone Christmas by Leslie O'Kane

A Dog-Gone Christmas
    My mother and I sighed in dismay at the departure board at Denver International. Our flight to Los Angeles to visit my brother’s family and meet my newest nephew was delayed by three hours.
    The airport’s garlands, fake Christmas trees, silver bells, and angels suddenly seemed like a waste of plastic. The background Christmas carols felt maddeningly repetitive as they plinked, dinged, and donged over the loudspeakers. I’d been so looking forward to sharing Christmas morning with my nieces and nephew, soaking up their unbridled glee in Santa, stockings, toys for boys and girls, while I got to bask in being an auntie, a sister, and a daughter all at the same time. This was Christmas magic, wrapped in warm hugs, fuzzy blankets, and chocolate. But delays had a tendency to morph into cancelations. My joyous expectations sank like a puddle of dirty, melting snow around the soles of my brown loafers.
    “It looks we’ll be having Christmas Eve dinner at the airport,” I said, forcing a little ho-ho cheer into my voice. I think I only managed ho-hum, though.
    “If only I could fly us there myself. Do they have anything but fast food—” She broke off and said, “Oh, my gosh! Allie! Look who it is!”
    I turned and spotted a pretty young woman with strawberry blonde hair. She had on fancy cowboy boots with extra-high heels, a skin-tight dress that was remarkably green and shiny, and professional-looking makeup that I hoped would inspire me to put some effort into eye shadow and eyeliner. Although I’d seen her face—recently even—I could only remember that she was a singer. She had forgone the motorized walkway in favor of walking at her own brisk pace, which was causing a major pedestrian-traffic jam on the walkway as a large clot of people tried to jockey for position to remain near her. She was followed by a small entourage—a tall Latino who was solid muscles, a vaguely familiar-looking overly tanned and overly smiling young man, and a second pretty young woman in a sharp-looking white wool coat who was making notations in an appointment book while talking on the phone and maintaining the brisk pace of the star—whoever she was.
    “That’s the country pop singer, Delia Gantry!” my mother announced.
    “Oh, right. The one who has her longhaired Chihuahua in all her photo shoots. That dog is a photographers dream!” Delia Gantry had a sweet—if vanilla—voice. She was a decade younger than me and had an even-younger, squealing-teeny-bopper fan base. Personally, I was most impressed by the enormous contributions she continually made to canine rescue groups.
    She was drawing a bead on the gate directly behind us. All around her, dozens of people stopped dead in their tracks or reversed directions to follow her, whipping out their cellphones and snapping pictures. She smiled, but I heard her grumble, “This is what I get for agreeing to give my pilot the holidays off.”
    She was carrying a Louis Vuitton Dog Carrier. Those stylish bags cost thousands of dollars—a staggering amount of money for someone like me, struggling to earn a living as a dog therapist in expensive Boulder, Colorado. The flap in the front was rolled up, and a buff-and-white longhair Chihuahua looked out. I couldn’t help but crane my neck to get a better look, but was so surprised at the dog’s appearance that I trotted along beside Delia for a couple of steps. She glared at me and shifted the bag to her other arm.
    “That’s not Bella, is it?” I asked her.
    “Of course she is. Why?”
    “Aren’t Bella’s eyes blue?”
    Delia held up her hand, and she along with her three people stopped on the spot. She narrowed her eyes at me, then turned her attention to the carrier. “You had better not be trying to…” She let her voice fade away as she struggled to open the latch. “This isn’t my Louis Vuitton! This has a first-generation fastener!” She looked through the open flap at the dog inside and gasped,