Reindeer Poop.

Hope it's not too late for a Christmas story!

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Mitch jolted awake at 6:24 a.m. He stared at the clock for a moment to make sure he wasn't dreaming and then threw off his covers. Adjusting his tangled pajamas, he hopped out of bed and climbed to the top bunk where his twin brother lay curled beneath his blanket.
"Jimmy!" he shouted in a whisper. "Jimmy, wake up!"
"W-what?" His brother sleepily emerged, eyes half-opened.
"It's Christmas!" Mitch beamed, shaking Jimmy's shoulders.
The other twin shed all semblance of drowsiness with a gasp. "I almost forgot!"
"Hurry!" Mitch cried. "We hafta wake up Emmie and Scott!"
They scampered down the ladder, making as little noise as possible, and ran down the hall to their little sister's room. Giddy with that special excitement that only Christmas can bring, they jumped onto the pink-princess-covered bed and jostled their 4-year-old sister awake.
"Emmie, Emmie! Wake up!" they cried. "It's Christmas!"
Emmie peeped her eyes open, sluggish for only a second before she, too, remembered. It was Christmas, and Santa Claus had come! With a gasp, she stood on her bed and clapped her hands.
"Presents! Presents!" she shouted.
"Shhhhh!" Mitch put a finger to his lips. "You're gonna wake up Mommy and Daddy!"
"Yeah," Jimmy agreed, pulling Emmie down from the bed. "You don't want them to tell us to go back to bed, do you?"
"Oops..." Emmie giggled and covered her mouth with her hands. "I be soft."
"Then c'mon," Mitch said.
They trooped out of the room and across the hall to wake up their big brother Scott. They could hear him snoring from outside his door. Giggling to each other, they pushed it open and crept to his bedside. Emmie tugged on Mitch's arm in the darkness.
"Mitchie, Mitchie! Is it twoo dat Scop doesn't buhweev in Santa Cwaus?"
"Shh!" Mitch turned to her. "Yes. He's a preteen now. He's too 'grown up' to believe in anything magical. He says it's silly and that Santa Claus doesn't exist."
"But Santa does exist, don't he Mitchie?"
"Of course he does." Mitch climbed onto the bed and crouched over his snoring, 12-year-old brother. "Mama says he's just going through a phrase, whatever that is. He just needs something to make him believe again."
"I hope somefing comes, Mitchie." Emmie's voice was earnest and sweet.
"C'mon already!" Jimmy had gotten impatient. "On three."
Jimmy and Emmie joined Mitch on the bed, crouched for action.
"One..." they began to chant in whispers. "Two..... Three!"
They all at once jumped on their snoring big brother, yelping in delight.
"Scott, Scott! Wake up! Let's go see what presents we got!"
Scott groaned and fought against the tugging, the yanking, and the pulling. "Shut up..." he murmured. "Gosh, just let me sleep. It's too early."
"Aw, c'mon, Scott! Let's go! Let's go!" They started to pull away his covers.
"Hey, let go of that!" Scott cried in objection. "Guys, stop, or I'll steal all your toys and...break them or something."
Emmie stopped, registering what exactly her brother had just said. Then with quivering lip she got really close to Scott's face and said: "But Scop... You wouldn't weally do that, would you?"
"I will if you don't stop pulling on me, so cut it out." He buried his head beneath his pillow.
Emmie's voice began to tremble. "But vat would be mean, a-and no one can be mean on Chwismiss... can vey?"
"Scott can," said Jimmy, getting off the bed. "'Cause he's all grown up now. He's no fun anymore."
"C'mon Scott," said Mitch, kneeling on the mattress. "Please? We want to go see what Santa brought us."
"Pwease, pwease, pwease?" Emmie clasped her hands together.

There was a long pause as Scott deliberated. The siblings twitched and fidgeted impatiently until finally he grumbled.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go see the presents Mom and Dad bought us. I hope they got everything on my list."
"Yay!" they whooped with glee.
"Shhh!" Mitch hushed through a smile. "Remember...."
Scott rolled his eyes and led the way out of his room, across the hall, and down the stairs. The twins and Emmie followed close behind, bumping into each other in excitement. As they reached the bottom, the three younger children dashed around the slow-moving Scott.

The hardwood floor was cold beneath their bare feet, but the fire on the hearth in the living room burned bright and warm. The white lights on the Christmas tree glimmered in the dim, fire-lit room, casting a magical glow across the presents carefully arranged beneath the fir boughs. The children ooh-ed and ahh-ed as they knelt down on the rug, seeking out the beautifully wrapped packages that had their names on them.

Scott lumbered across the room, trying to keep his cool. Bending half-heartedly, he glanced around beneath the tree, spotting a few presents that were for him. The others were lifting and feeling as they went, sometimes shaking when the uniform shape of a square box gave no hint nor clue as to what was inside.

Soon, the knit stockings were being sifted through, candy and toys being strewn across the rug.

Their cries of "Oh wow!" and "Look at this!" were enough to awaken their parents above and very soon they made their way down the stairs to ensure no presents were cracked open prematurely.

Clad in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, their father smiled and approached the tree. In a deep voice he said: "Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, little ones!"

"Daddy, Daddy!" They laughed racously.

"Are you ready to open some presents?"

"Yeah!" The younger children danced around with glee, while Scott smirked and sat on the fireplace.

Father put his arm around Mother as they sat down around the tree to face the pile of presents before them.

The next hour was filled with the tearing of wrapping paper, shouts of excitement and surprise, and the joyful sounds of content children. Their parents sat and watched with gratitude, and the sun outside rose on a white morning.

But not a word was heard from Scott as he indifferently poked through his pile of opened gifts. He had received everything on his list - the newest iPod, a brand new cell phone, the three CDs he'd requested, and a DVD documentary of his favorite band. His parents had even thrown in some new socks and underwear. Yet he didn't understand why his younger siblings were happier with their simple toys - their Legos, Barbies, GI Joes, and plastic cars - than he was with his fancy gadgets.

His parents observed all of this with a close eye, knowing and wise, and when the time was right, Father stood and with a big, overexaggerated sigh announced that it was time to gather the trash and clean up the place so they could get on with their playing. With only some minor objections, they all began to gather the clumps of crinkled wrapping paper that had been tossed to and fro in the merry melee.

"Scottie," Father held out a trash bag to his oldest son. "You can do the honors this year."

"Gee thanks," he said. "I'd love to gather trash."

Father winked at Mother, and together they herded their children in the attempt to clean up.

Soon, with the white trash bag bulging, the floors were clear, except for the toys and goodies. Having fulfilled their duties, the children went back to playing and Scott stood by the back door with the bag. The grey trash bin was across the yard beside the shed, and seemed oh-so-far away.

"D'you want me to help, son?" Father opened the door for him.

"Nah, I got it." Scott moped.

"Hurry back!" Mother called from the kitchen. "We'll start cooking breakfast!"

Scott stepped out onto the patio in his pajama pants and socks, his breath hanging in the air, and made his way along the path that led to the shed. He hung his head and dragged the trash bag behind him. When he reached the bin, he opened the lid and flopped the bag into the stinky chasm, and without bothering to close it, he turned to run back into the house. With a few bounds, he was halfway across the yard, tromping over the frosty grass in his socks until he hoofed right into something warm and wet and squishy.
"Ugh!" He cried, lifting his foot from the brown pile. "What the--"
Poop. Fresh and steamy poop. Huge poop -- but whose poop?! They didn't have a dog, there neighbors didn't have a dog, and there was no possible way any neighborhood mutt could have scaled their 7-foot wooden fence to plop its mess by the shed. The turds were too large to belong to any furry woodland creature that could have dropped a little present from the trees, and nothing big enough to poop such epic proportions could possibly climb their little suburban tree-wannabees.
Scott was stumped. Stumped and disgusted. He held his nose, scraping his foot across the grass, fuming and musing while streaks of brown marred the whiteness of the frost.
This just crowned his whole morning in a halo of glorified waste, and from an unknown animal no less. It was like God had flung it down, like a gift, from the sky meant especially to--
The twelve-year-old boy froze in the yard in mid-scrape.
From the sky...
Visions of a jolly man in red soaring through the sky at the helm of bell-strewn sleigh flashed in his mind. The fat man laughed from deep within, a merry "Ho ho ho", and flicked a black whip over his mush of eight flying reindeer....
Scott shook his slowly, a wry smile appearing on his face. Yet, just as he expressed his disbelief, something on the roof caught his eye. There seemed to be a trail of...tracks that stretched from one end of the ridge to the next, and down the side to the eaves where, perhaps, someone or something, or both...took off. For, the ground below was unblemished, free from any trace of footprint or track.
The boy's mouth hung open as he connected the two -- the poop and the tracks.
Could it possibly be? Could a mush of...of reindeer pulling a sleigh chock-full of presents have really flown over and onto their house? And could one particularly gaseous reindeer have dropped a rather smelly load smack in the middle of their yard as they took off again into the night?
A full-out smile stretched across Scott's face, and he almost laughed out loud.
Reindeer!
Forgetting entirely about the unpleasant smear remaining on his sock, he dashed to the back door, calling out to his family: "Guys, you'll never believe it!"
The younger kids , who were still in the living room, eagerly rushed out into the frosty yard to witness the poop-miracle themselves.
"See, Scop!" Emmie hugged his waist as her brothers danced around them. "I told you Santa's weal!"
Scott blushed, while a very satisfied and content smile crept over Emmie's litte face.
"You just had to buhweive..."


Inside the house, sitting at the kitchen table, the childrens' mother and father smiled to one another.
"I told you it'd work," Father said with a wink.
Mother smirked and took her arm from around her husband's shoulders.
"Oh, I never doubted you," she said. "The idea is foolproof. Who'd ever guess there are reindeer farms in Utah?"