Classic Content: One Afternoon in the Santa Suit

Yeah, that’s really me. (You should see the other photo we took. Not quite as jolly.) Photo by Sara Havens

In 2015, my friend Andrea Blair, of the Kentucky Humane Society, asked me if I would volunteer to do a shift as Santa Claus for the KHS Picture Your Pets with Santa annual fundraiser. Naturally, since I love animals, I said I would. This was my experience — and I went on to play Santa each year until covid said that I couldn’t anymore. (Maybe next year.)

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My parents like to tell a story about when I was maybe 3 years old, and they took me to the Green Tree Mall to sit on Santa Claus’s lap. To hear them tell it, we waited in line, with my Uncle Terry in tow, for about a month, probably right in front of the Danner’s 5 & 10.

When I finally reached the front of the line, I refused to go near the giant, red-clad elf with the raging white beard. (Seriously, why aren’t all kids scared of Santa Claus?) My mother was not happy to have wasted a month of her life waiting in line, so on the long journey back to our 1961 Chevy Corvair she began to scold me. My response was direct.

“Piss on Santa Claus,” my little 3-year-old mouth spat.

Legend has it that my Uncle Terry has never laughed harder, neither before nor since that magical day. Not sure if Santa came to my house that year.

Anyway, I began to recall this story as I pulled on my baggy red pants, fake belly, oversized red coat, massive fake beard and wig, in the back room at Feeders Supply in Holiday Manor this past Saturday. I was volunteering as part of a Kentucky Humane Society fundraiser; I was Santa Claus, and I was there to have my picture taken with people’s pets. Ho, ho, ho.

And that’s when I realized that my “piss on Santa Claus” remark could very well, more than 40 years later, come full circle to haunt me if some nervous Chihuahua lost its clench during a shoot. Oh, the irony.

Shortly after I took my place in the comfy chair by the tree and fake gifts, a couple approached me, one holding a small dog and the other holding a lovely baby girl in a red Christmas outfit. The dog was plopped onto my left knee, the baby onto the right. The dog didn’t seem at all fazed to suddenly be held by an ancient, immortal elf. The baby turned to look at me, her big, blue beautiful eyes in shocked wonder, her strawberry hair adorned in a bow.

And then she started screaming.

And so it went. It didn’t take long before I realized that most dogs are terrified of Santa Claus, too. Big dogs, small dogs. It didn’t matter. The big dogs would just bolt away, me clinging to their leash. The small dogs would be placed in my lap, would start to scramble, and would almost inevitably get caught in my big, fake beard. So, the photographer would be firing away with her camera, and meanwhile, I have a poodle climbing my face. Over and over, the damn beard came off, the photographer still snapping photos. God, I’d love to see some of those outtake shots.

At one point, the friendly assistant who had helped me get into the suit came over with a long-haired dachshund. The little dog was sweet enough, but she really had no interest in sitting on my lap or having her picture taken. Her owners, and everyone volunteering for the humane society squeaked toys, waved, did everything they could to get the poor, trembling animal to look at the camera. Meanwhile, the dog was essentially running in place in my fake beard.

I honestly am shocked the dog did not pee all over me. But then, without warning, the dachshund stopped struggling, turned to look me square in the eye, and then licked me right on the nose. And with that, we were friends. It was that kind of day.

However, one thing I didn’t bank on when I put on the suit was that when you do so, you become Santa Claus. You’re not just a guy in a costume anymore; you are the real deal, and you have to live up to it.

Here’s why I say this: About two hours in, as I sat there waiting for the next nervous little canine to be brought to my lap, I spotted a little girl, maybe 7 or 8 years old, walking down the aisle at the pet store. I was in the back room, but from that aisle I was plainly visible. When the girl saw me, I could literally see her inner light turn on. She was too far away for me to hear her speak, but I saw her mouth form the word, “Santa.”

It was me. She was looking at me. I was Santa at that moment, and I instantly realized what a huge responsibility that big, bulky suit was. It wasn’t just a suit anymore – it was a spirit. It was the spirit of Christmas incarnate, and I was adorned in it. I don’t send out Christmas cards. I haven’t had a Christmas tree since the 1990s. But all of a sudden, to that little girl, I was Santa Claus.

She started to run toward me, her eyes wide with wonder. She got to the doorway, when she exclaimed, “Santa!”

So I spoke, with as much jolliness as my dark heart could muster: “Hello there, little girl,” I said. “How are you today?”

Her eyes grew even wider to hear Santa speak to her. She mumbled that she was fine, and she simultaneously turned a deep red. She was adorable, with short brown hair and gleaming eyes.

“What’s your name, little girl?” I said.

She giggled. “Jillian.” (No, that’s not her real name.)

Then someone brought in the next dog. Little Jillian was standing just a few feet away from the True Spirit of Christmas, and she was being informed that Santa was there for pets, not children. I could sense her moment of disappointment, so I spoke up, still using the best Santa voice I could possibly muster. “We have time to get one picture. Come here, Jillian.”

Her smile filled the room. She bounded over to me, leaned in so that her face was touching mine, and the photographer snapped a single frame. She then ran over to look at the picture of her with Santa Claus on the photographer’s laptop. (Isn’t digital photography amazing?)

Then her dad approached and told her it was time to leave. She excitedly told him she’d had her picture taken with Santa.

“No, honey, Santa is here for pets, not children,” he insisted. She tried again to tell him she wasn’t asking for a photo with Santa – she had actually gotten one. He didn’t understand, and pulled her away. She turned and waved to me – to Santa Claus – one last time. I waved back. She didn’t even get a copy of the picture, which I hated.

But I also knew that, even though no one might ever believe her, for one beautiful moment, she experienced holiday joy in technicolor – she met Santa Claus. The real Santa Claus. And she will have that feeling forever; she knows it happened, and that’s all that matters, whether she has actual photographic evidence or not. And the fact I was able to give her that moment, however brief, turned me from a Grinch to a Who in an instant. My small heart grew three sizes that day.

The Santa suit, I suddenly realized, carries with it a greater power than I had ever imagined – a magical power. And as much as I “bah, humbug” the holidays every year, that one exchange with that sweet little girl changed me somehow. It made me remember what it was like to be a kid, and to believe, to feel that flawless innocence. The feeling of Christmas spirit returned to me, and in a way I’d never felt it.

I also learned that it is impossible to go to the bathroom while wearing a Santa suit. Three hours of dogs in your lap when you have to pee is a whole other Christmas story. Piss on Santa Claus, indeed.

This post was originally published by InsiderLouisville.com.