In Dogged Pursuit of Christmas Spirit

We drive, the dog and I, down the boulevard and across Los Angeles, a livable little town with plenty going for it: mini-malls and car dealerships, store-front psychics and dozens of Christmas tree lots.

“We flock,” the sign at the Christmas tree lot says. “White. Pink. Blue. Glitter.”

Welcome to L.A. Welcome to our Christmas.

“I think I’ll get you flocked,” I tell the dog. “For Christmas, I mean.”

And he looks at me the way I look at a plate of the finest lamb chops, drooling a little, tinsel in his eyes. It’s hard to describe the way he looks at me. It’s hard to describe real love.

“Quit staring,” I finally have to tell him.

Down the boulevard we go. The dog loves riding in the car like this, returning the Blockbuster videos or off to buy milk. Occasionally, the hardware store.

These are big events in his life, as in mine. We head off early. A full tank of gas.

“OK, where next?” I ask.

He just shrugs. He doesn’t care. He’s happy everywhere we go. Dog happy. As happy as anything can get.

“Surprise me,” he says.

So I do. We spin by the ATM, then to the dry cleaners.

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For lunch, I buy him a doughnut--glazed, his favorite--which he eats in one breath. I don’t blame him. Basically, he eats like I do. One bite per meal.

“Wanna buy some lottery tickets?” I ask.

It’s maybe the dumbest question he’s ever heard. He’d love to buy lottery tickets. Down the boulevard we go.

We are entering middle age together, the dog and I. In a few more years, our ears will be equally hairy. Then our prostates will go. We’ll while away the afternoons baking bread and watching game shows.

“This is great,” I’ll tell him.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he’ll say.

With that to look forward to, we run our errands.

As I drive, he watches me work the car. He sits in the passenger seat, winking at me with one eye, then the other. Like most dogs, he has two brains, one to operate each eye. When he winks at me, I wink back.

“Nice turn,” he winks as I pull into the post office.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Nice stop,” he winks as I pull into a parking space.

“Thanks,” I say.

Mostly, I think he wishes I’d stop at one of these Christmas tree lots. He loves Christmas tree lots. To a dog, there can never be enough trees. Especially in L.A. He thinks they put these extra trees out just for him.

“They’re not for you,” I tell him.

“They’re not?”

“No, they’re for everyone,” I tell him.

So we drive past the Christmas tree lots, him kissing the windows clean, me licking my Coke.

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As we pass the trees, I think about my friend Bill, who is taking his family on a train ride this weekend to get their Christmas tree. First, you get on a train, then they take you to the trees. You cut your tree, then put it on the train.

It’s one of those elaborate things only great family men like Bill will do. He’ll call, make the reservation, then spend his Sunday on a Christmas tree train.

Of all the people with Christmas tree war stories, Bill may have the best ones. There was the time the tree fell off the car. Or the time they couldn’t get the tree out of the station wagon. Apparently, the branches had grown on the way home, and they couldn’t get it out.

Then there was the time he went to lop an inch off the bottom with his nice chain saw, and hit some big spike the Christmas tree guys left in there. He’s a lawyer, though, so they gave him a new chain. And a down payment on a house.

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“I wonder . . . .” I say to myself as the dog and I drive down the boulevard.

And what I’m wondering is this: As Bill gets off the train to get a Christmas tree 50 miles away, what if I go over to his yard and cut one down? He’s got a few nice noble firs in the corner of the yard. He might not even miss it. Just in case, I’d leave a note.

“Dear Bill,” the note would say. “Thank you for the tree. My wife just had to have it. You had many, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”

I’d sign it “your grateful neighbor,” nothing more, then leave it by the door.

Generally, I’m not much for pranks. Most of the time, they can be mean-spirited and boorish. But it’s Christmas.

Here’s another one I’ve always wanted to try.

I’d wait till my friend Don bought a tree, because I know my friend Don and I know he’d get a great big tree and keep it in the garage till they put it up.

Then each night, I’d sneak into his garage and replace it with a tree just a few inches smaller. One day, his lovely wife would notice.

“It’s shrinking,” his lovely wife would say.

“Christmas trees can’t shrink,” her lovely husband would answer.

Finally, when it was down to 2 feet tall, I’d have it flocked. Pink. Blue. Maybe glitter.

“Dear Don,” the note would read. “Merry Christmas.”

Wanted: Christmas Tree Stories

Christmas trees are smarter than we are. Stronger, too. Ever had one fall off the car on the way home? Ever nailed one to the floor in frustration? Send your Christmas tree war stories to chris.erskine@latimes.com. Or fax them to (213) 237-2217. Next week, I’ll print the best of them.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays.