“Hi. I’m Bond. James Bond.”

No, of course I’m not. I’m a liar. I lie constantly. But when you’re a reindeer, truth is a flexible thing, like frozen grass or the concept of personal dignity. Every winter I get given a new name anyway, so I might as well be James Bond this time. It beats being called Rudolph. I haven’t even got a red nose. I’ve checked. Repeatedly. In puddles. In shiny hubcaps. Once in a child’s balloon.

Last year I was Dancer. The year before that Prancer. Before that one of the others. There are too many. How Santa remembers them all I’ll never know. I struggle to remember my own name once the frost sets in.

Right. Let’s try this again.

“Hi, I’m Hoofy McHoofface. Reindeer, third class.”

Don’t laugh. That name was the result of a public competition the year I was born. Apparently humans were invited to suggest something “fun and festive” while standing around with mulled wine and poor judgement. That’s what they landed on. Hoofy McHoofface. You see now why, every year when the nights draw in and the jingling starts, they quietly rename me. The sign writers simply refuse.

When Santa Time arrives, as we reindeer call it, we’re loaded into wagons and driven up and down the country like travelling ornaments. Every day a new town, a new square, a new set of twinkly lights, and a fresh batch of humans making soft, breathy “oooo” noises at us. We’re tethered, brushed, posed and encouraged to look magical while standing on frozen tarmac for hours at a time.

The children stare hardest. You can see the question forming in their eyes: Are they really Santa’s reindeer?
“Yes,” their parents whisper, with absolute confidence.
I try to correct them, but apparently my accent is too rich, or possibly too full of hay.

Still, their faces are worth watching. Wonder does wonderful things to a face. All this amazement, mind you, is earned in exchange for a handful of carrots. Always carrots. Never parsnips. I’d sell my left antler for a parsnip. Something with a bit of depth. A bit of character.

Then it’s back in the wagon and off we go again, bells clanking, exhaust fumes curling into the cold air.

I hear some places just strap fake antlers onto any old donkey and call it a reindeer. And people believe it. The poor sods even pose for photos. When they see us, they must assume we’re the same sort of thing. One child tried to pull my antlers off the other day to prove I wasn’t real. I gave him a swift, educational kick when no one was looking. I like to think he learned something.

I do wish I could fly, though. Really fly. Like the chosen ones. The big team. The red-nosed elite. My mother used to tell us stories about them when we were calves, huddled together while the snow crept in. Blessed, she called them. I understand why. Imagine lifting off the ground, the cold slicing clean through your coat, the world rolling beneath you like a map. One night. Every roof. Every light.

Instead, I get German markets and portable fencing.

Still, it’s better than being an ordinary deer. Around this time of year, they vanish from the fields. No goodbyes. No postcards. Nothing. Humans, I hear, like to eat them. Eat them. Imagine that. We don’t eat humans. Well. Not properly. Just the occasional nibble of an unruly child. Fair’s fair.

For most of the year, though, life’s not bad. We graze. We doze. We dream. And every winter, as we’re paraded around and children gasp and bells ring, I let myself think the same thought.

Maybe next year.

Maybe next year I’ll be chosen. Maybe I really will be Dancer. Or Prancer. Or even James Bond.

Until then, this is Hoofy McHoofface, reindeer third class, signing off.

This months (December) Writing prompt was to write a story of an animal at Christmas.