Inside a snowflake,
Like the one on your sleeve,
There happened a story you must see to believe,
Way up in the mountains,
In the high rage of Pontoons,
Lay the small town of Whoville
The home of the Whos!
Ask any Who and they’ll have this to say
There is no place like Whoville around Christmas Day….
Arbor Day is fine,
And Easter was pleasant,
And every Saint Fizzin’s Day,
They ate a Fizz pheasant;
But every Who knew,
From their 12 toes to their snout,
They loved Christmas the most,
Without a single Who Doubt.

And now,
A year since he stole Christmas,
The Grinch was pondering how,
To return to his Who love what was stolen in past.
He pondered and pondered tapping his head,
Just how to correct the mistake he had made.

“Think Max, think!” The Grinch said in his deep low voice. He had to be careful of not making a sound as he sat near his bed gazing at Martha May’s angelic face.

His only reply was a soft whine from Max as he covered his eyes with his paws.

A year from today he had stolen Christmas as a way to make all the Whos sad and desperate. It had worked, but only for a couple of minutes. Soon the Whos were gathered around the main Who plaza, where the new tree stood, trying to decipher what had happened to all their Christmas decorations. Martha May Whovier had been one of those; her blue and white rob swished against the snow covered ground as she looked around shocked and slightly confused. She had a inkling on who had stolen the Christmas cheer but she didn’t say anything for fear of seeing Whos marching up to the Grinch and hurting him.

Just when everyone thought there was no redemption for him he had slid down the mountain, his cargo in his sleigh, and screaming at everyone to get out of the way. Martha May and Betty Lou had tried to stop his sliding and he had finally come to a halt a few centimeters in front of the tree. He accepted his crime and instead of being taken away he was rewarded by Martha May finally accepting to be with him.

So here he was a year later, Martha May sleeping in the bed they shared completely oblivious to his midnight musing. Tomorrow would be Christmas morning and he wanted to do something nice and full of Christmas cheer for her since he had taken all of her decorations the Christmas before.

Another whine took him away from his thoughts and he quickly turned to look at Max, a frown on his green fury face. “What Max?” he asked as he put his hands on his hips.

Max, who was at ground level, quickly went under the bed. The Grinch got up from his chair, placed his hands on his hips once more, and leaned down to see what Max was doing. All he could see, however, was the tail of his best friend. Max whined once more and the Grinch took hold of his tail to pull him out. With grunts and whines, since Max had gotten stuck, the Grinch was finally able to pull him free. From the bed Martha May slowly turned to lay on one side and the Grinch stood, almost unmoving, to see if she woke up. When she didn’t he let a sigh of relief and finally released Max’s tail.

“What is that, Old Max?” he asked as he noticed the dog had something in his mouth. That something, to be precise, was the ribbon that tied a box shut. Now, the Grinch liked Christmas and every day he took a tiny step into loving it as much as Martha May did, but a little amount of wickedness still remained in his body. Everyone was fine with it, particularly Martha May who loved to sometimes see that wicked side. Slowly he reached and took hold of the edge of the ribbon and pulled it, his eyes on Martha May to see if she woke up. When the ribbon was completely unkotted it fell to the sides and left the white box all by itself. He grunted and pushed it away. “No Max! It’s not right.” He said.

Max looked at him with a raised eyebrow, as if to say that he knew better and that he would eventually open it.

“Fine, fine, but if Martha finds out you were the one that opened it.” He told Max as his green fingers took hold of the box’s top. Quickly he lifted it and closed his eyes as he did. When nothing happened he opened an eye and peered into the box. “What in Whovier’s He…y?” he asked himself as he reached inside of the box. There, carefully preserved, was the metal angel he had done for Martha that Christmas. It was broken; the face almost in pieces, one wing detached but when he looked further he found that it was still there. Martha May Whovier had kept his one and only Christmas gifts all this years and had even brought it to the cave they shared up in the mountain.

He grunted and placed a finger on his chin. He had just gotten the idea for the perfect Christmas present for his Martha. “Come on Max!” he called the dog who instantly got up without much of a whine.

Soon all that was in the bedroom was Martha May as she lay sleeping in the bed.