Last week we were honored to have Christopher Moore, the outrageous author of The Stupidest Angel, Lamb, and other bestsellers, as our guest blogger. In this post, Moore shares with us one possible reason he might have grown up to write "these completely sick stories about zombies and Christmas and stuff?"

December 5, 2007
That Time, at Christmas, When Dad Shot Santa...

So, Christmas Eve was tough on the folks, because it was the one night of the year when they actually helped perpetuate the myth that was keeping me awake. (I'm not counting Tooth Fairy nights, because they weren't scheduled and I would have caught that bitch if I hadn't run out of teeth and the rat trap hadn't kept going off during the night and catching my ear. Yes, it left a mark!)

Did I mention that Dad was a cop? Yeah, Dad was a cop, a highway patrolman, who very often worked until midnight on holidays. That particular Christmas Eve I was very excited for Santa's arrival, as I'd asked for a real flying reindeer and I wanted to take that bitch out for a test-drive before I dropped off to visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. (Yes, I bought seriously into the Santa myth that year — I drank the Kool-Aid, bought the T-shirt, and slept with the mascot — I know, but I was five.)

When Dad arrived home that night, well after midnight, he looked through the picture window and saw me bouncing on the couch, all jacked up on candy-canes and eggnog, and made an infamous parenting decision.

Dad drew his service revolver, fired it into the ground, then holstered it, came in the front door and said, "It's okay, Chris, you can go to bed now, Santa's not coming. I just shot him off the roof."

Completely true story.

Read the entire blog post and check out the rest of Moore's entries on our blog. Then check back every day for guest bloggers, Book News, our weekly hump day poll, exclusive giveaways, and more!

Fup confided in her sister within days of the decision. Only years later, and under strict bounds of confidentiality, did Clara tell Bear. Bear had known Fup longer than anyone in Portland, save her family; he'd known her since before she even came to Portland. He could keep a secret, and didn't he deserve to know?

Only after Fup's passing did Bear tell Zooey.

"Kind of cool," Zooey reflects, "how there's still more of Fup to go around. I mean, it's odd how a story can make someone bigger in your mind, or make them more real. Even someone you thought you knew well. But it still kind of freaks me out."

Bear confirms it. "You did know her well," he says. "But you might have never known her at all, if she hadn't changed her mind."

Bagheera remains in the recessed window, near the top of the basement wall. Chester has retreated to the corner — no more wrestling with Oreo, too many close claws across the snout.

"Changed her mind about what?" Oreo wants to know.

"He'll get there," Bagheera chimes in.

Bear says, "Fup ran away once, not long after she came to Powell's. She'd told me — she'd told everyone — that she was visiting Wiggums in Boring, but according to Clara she had no intention of coming back."

÷ ÷ ÷

Thank you sincerely to all our friends for your outpouring of thoughts and good wishes, and for the many generous donations to the Oregon Humane Society in memory of our beloved Fup.