A/N Thanks to reviewer BaltimoreJaxs for this request: Can we get a chapter from the puppy's point of view, would like to hear how he got the roast.
Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
Hi, I'm Scrapple. I have to tell you, I really thought I had it. That would have been the best Christmas present ever for me! Castle left the roasting pan on the kitchen island when he went to answer the door, and must not have realized that I could jump up on the stool and then on to the island. It was a little daunting, but the incentive was huge. That standing rib roast. Wow. I bet I could have smelled it all the way from Chicago. Seriously, who could blame me for trying to get it?
Getting it out of the hot pan was going to be tricky, but I decided that if I put one of my front paws on the meat to hold it steady and then got my teeth into it I could lift it up without tipping the pan or burning myself. It worked. Once I really had it, I just hung my head over the edge of the island and opened my mouth. The roast dropped to the floor and nobody heard a thing because they were all making so much noise in the living room.
Yup, I really thought that I could stuff that huge, delicious chunk of meat behind the washing machine and stuff myself with it before they managed to get it away from me. (Did you notice that? Stuff and stuff? Castle's not the only one in this family who likes wordplay.) But oh, no, there had to be a rat. Alexis. That red-headed, two-legged rat Alexis ratted me out. She yelled, "Scrapple has the roast!" and jumped up from her chair and chased me. I had a good grip, but not good enough. She's stronger than I am and she has opposable thumbs. I don't have any thumbs at all.
That main event of Christmas dinner was almost as big as I am. I weigh eight pounds and I bet it weighed six. At least Eliot helped me. He made sure that he pushed some bits of the meat off his highchair so that I could eat them. We're not best friends for nothing, you know.
In case you've forgotten, I'm a dachshund, which is German for badger dog. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents in Germany would go barreling down holes in the ground to hunt badgers. Not me, thank you very much. I'm not getting into it with a badger, which is related to a weasel, and you know what weasels are like. Please! They're nasty little critters. You couldn't pay me to go down there. Not even if you bribed me with an entire roast beef. You couldn't even badger me into going down a badger hole! I made that joke to Eliot. He didn't know the other meaning of badger, but after I told him he laughed so hard he fell down on his bottom. Eliot has a fantastic sense of humor. He tells very good jokes and he makes a lot of them up himself. He could be a stand-up comedian, especially now that he's old enough to stand up. When I stand up my body is still only two inches off the ground, so it's hard for people to see me. Eliot says, "Hey, Scrapple, keep your ear to the ground!" That kid cracks me up.
I know that I'm a lucky dog. Lots of the animals I met at the shelter had been there a long time, but I got adopted after only a week. I even already knew the great smells in the neighborhood because the shelter is right around the corner from the loft. Some people make dogs sleep in the kitchen, which wouldn't really be a hardship for me since I could find plenty to snack on after hours. Castle doesn't always remember to put things away or out of reach (like the roast beef, heh heh!). But it's a lot nicer to sleep on the rug in Eliot's room, next to the crib. If I could get through the slats I would, but they make me a little nervous. Also, it's good to be on the floor in the event of marauders. I would have easy access to their ankles, and if you think I latched on to that roast beef well, you should see what I could do to people if they were crazy enough to break in here. I have excellent hearing, and I'd know they'd gotten in before they took more than a step. I'd bark like a mad dog, too. I may not be much bigger than a bag of flour, but I sound like a Rottweiler. I'd scare the **** out of them. I'm pretty sure you know what I mean, but I don't want to use that word in case the newest reader in the family sees this.
The other day Beckett was reading a book that Santa gave to Eliot and she said that he was going to be so many wonderful things. That's the only regret I have about being a dog, that I won't live long enough to see Eliot grow up. I'm glad that he doesn't know that. But then I was thinking I shouldn't be sad because he already is a lot of wonderful things. He's kind. He's generous. He's funny. He tells the twins things to help them get ready for the world. He throws the ball for me. He rides in the bike trailer with me and likes that we wear matching helmets. We tell each other stories. He pats me. He sneaks food to me. He lets me lick his face. He shares his toys with me. We take naps together. I don't snitch on him, like when he !#hcl %rd (that's our secret code) and he doesn't snitch on me, like the time I g=#*4 lm7 (ditto). When we were in the car the other day I heard an old Harry Nilsson song on the radio, "Best Friend," and it reminded me of him, especially the line "He's a warm-hearted person who'll love me to the end." And I know he will, right to the end. That's my boy. That's Eliot.