Aunt Jimmie bought the incredibly ugly ceramic dog in 2007 as a gift for the annual Conwill Christmas gathering. Cousins, aunts, and uncles have been getting together each December for longer than most of us can remember, with the Dirty Santa gift exchange a highlight of the day. I’m not particularly fond of the game’s name, and the more I think about it the less certain I am of the actual appropriateness of the very un-Christmas-like behavior the gift exchange encourages, but it’s a tradition, so by golly it’s going to be played every single year, come hell or high water. If you can’t play the game, or you can’t take a joke, then you’d best not come.
Everybody who participates brings a wrapped gift to place under the Christmas tree, with no tag and no indication of what is inside the box or bag. Most of the gifts are actually things that one might want, although my dad once eagerly unwrapped a set of bright green Grinch boxer shorts that he probably wasn’t nearly as excited about as he let on. He has an excellent poker face. Inevitably a guy will hilariously unwrap a set of fuzzy pink house shoes, while his female cousin might get stuck with a super cool flashlight or set of wrenches. Gifts are selected according to numbers drawn, with each player either taking a wrapped gift or “stealing” an unwrapped item that he or she fancies. I’m pretty sure the art of stealing is not in the Christmas story but it’s definitely in ours.
The whole game is one big strategy, with kids stealing for their parents, who agree to then steal something for the kids when their turn comes around. I know for a fact that family loyalty and caring is woven throughout the Christmas story so we’re not far off the mark there if you just don’t count the whole stealing thing. My branch of the family tree has its own sub-strategy, to bring gifts that each of us would really like to have. We wrap them in an easily recognizable print and then angle for those gifts. That way, you get what you really want even if you do gift it to yourself. But that works only if someone with a higher number doesn’t appreciate the item as much as you do, which happens more often than not. And we’re not afraid to hurt feelings.
As the family is in a bit of a lull right now with no one under the age of 18, the whole stealing thing seems to work out for us, good sports that we are. There was a time, though, when the young ones chose from their own stack of gifts to unwrap or take away from someone else. Family cheer was severely tested more than a few times by a sulled-up face or all-out tantrum. Those were some trying years that we finally outgrew. And I miss them.
At any rate, Conwill the dog made his appearance under the family Christmas tree more than a few years ago. Aunt Jimmie thought the dog was cute. She must have been a bit squinty eyed on the day of that purchase, as I’d describe Conwill the dog in a lot of ways, with none of them including the word “cute.” That is, unless you perversely count something so ugly that it’s pretty. He’s a very generic, blasé, mottled sort of forgettable tan color with bloodshot bug eyes and a somewhat angry face that suggests he’s been on an all-night bender at the Top Dog Bar and Grill, with a hangover to prove it.
So the year he debuted, we weren’t sure whether he was a gag gift or not. The fact of the matter was that no one knew what to make of him. Was he a tabletop figurine? Was he a toy? Then someone–I wish I could remember who—suggested that he serve as a sort of perpetual trophy or a prize egg that had to be returned under the tree each Christmas. Whoever opened Conwill was the winner for the year. And whoever that was had to sign his foot or chest or any available area, dating the signature as well. That way, he would become sort of a family historian, documenting his travels through our various homes and reminding new recipients of those who had come before them. His paws, underbelly, and tail are now filled with our invaluable scribbling of names and years. Uncle Wayne took him home in 2009, with Angie following up the next year. Ashley, Naveed, Johannah, and Bob have recorded their time spent with Conwill. Even Aunt Jimmie got to sign a paw once. Drake angled for him each Christmas, scoring 2008, 2012, and 2013. We finally had to disqualify Drake just for hogging him, as enough was enough. He became quite the popular gift, popping up in oversized bags or disguised as other more desirable items. He was, and is, the star of the show now.
Which is why this past year was so disconcerting for me. He is not only a very valuable family record, but he is incredibly breakable and a huge responsibility for whoever takes him home. In fact, each year he only becomes more priceless as the signatures and family history mount up. That’s not something I should be trusted with. And yet, I agreed to foster him for the year, as Angie didn’t want to risk taking home her prize when she would just have to return him to the same location for the next gathering at the same place. No point in transporting him needlessly, which made all sorts of sense at the time. So I put him on a far back shelf, out of view and out of range of danger, and promptly forgot the entire exchange.
Months of this strained COVID-19 year then passed, with nary a thought of Conwill, until Aunt Jimmie became concerned about his whereabouts. And when Aunt Jimmie becomes concerned, we all get very responsive. Early in December, an anxious group text among the cousins revealed that we had no idea where Conwill was. I was probably the most vocal in denying any involvement. Anyway, we weren’t getting together for Christmas during this ultra-weird year, so we had time. But Aunt Jimmie was losing sleep over it, which wouldn’t do at all.
Fingers began to point in my direction even as I continued my vehement denial. Dixie searched her closets after I suggested that one of her boys had surely claimed Conwill the previous year. Dee Dee worried, as Dee Dee does, but had no idea where to begin to look. Anyway, Drake had been disqualified so she was certain he hadn’t been the culprit. Others were too busy or just too certain of my guilt to even attempt a search.
And they were right. A brief search that I was sure would end otherwise, actually unearthed Conwill, to my dismay. His year on the shelf had done nothing to improve his attitude, as he looked just as out of sorts as always. Elf on the Shelf is one thing, but I’d never suggest scarring children with Conwill on the Shelf. And I’m stuck with his safekeeping for at least one more year. Yay.
Several years ago, when his body began to run out of space for signatures, Dee Dee creatively attached a large bone-shaped collar tag with the dog’s name on the front and space for signatures on the back. Bob, ever the family historian, made me promise to have my dad, who is now the family patriarch, sign the “collar bone” this year. Dutifully presenting both Conwill and a Sharpie, I asked Daddy to sign his name. “Both my first and last name?”, he asked. “Sure. Why not?” I responded.
So he did, John Hancock-wise, across the entire width of the bone. “Lawrence Conwill, 2020.” For all that the year represents to us, for all that we denounce or grieve or regret, that one signature from a 92-year-old family blessing is a reminder of what really matters. It’s family and love and connection and shared experiences that one shaky year shouldn’t be allowed to overshadow.
Conwill still has a bad attitude, but each year, with each new signature, he gets a bit more attractive. I’m actually sort of pleased to co-exist with him one more year. I might even find a corner to add my name, because why not? This year definitely deserves a double dose of family.
