This morning I find the dog waiting eagerly outside the living room door, which is strange because that’s where he sleeps.

He catches my eye as I return from the bathroom and wags his tail.

“Is it time to unwrap the presents yet?”

I duck under the tree to turn on the lights, and the thumping of his tail increases. 

“Not yet, mate,” I mutter, before stumbling away to the kitchen to make a coffee. The dog lets out a little whine.

He doesn’t get many presents, but that’s not what he is excited about. He only cares about the gift wrap. 

Later, as always, he leaps on every scrunched ball of paper we produce with a gleeful snarl, methodically shredding each sheet into a thousand damp scraps.

I guess that’s the part of getting a present that he enjoys the most: unwrapping it.

And sometimes, I think he might be right.