Dear Calvin & Hobbes (and you know who’s who),

Man, was Christmas a bust. You didn’t lose a minute of sleep, got up at the regular hour and weren’t shocked by a thing.

Not that you didn’t get a shit ton of toys, every one of which you seemed to like. It’s just that you tear through every one of them. In minutes.

Jadie, I’ve seen you skin and quarter a tennis ball in the time it takes to shower. Charlie, I’ve seen you fray wicker.

So when a soft, white, fluffy, squeaky chicken decked in a flowered bandana showed up this month among the embarrassment of holiday riches (and i know who’s me), I didn’t give it much thought when I tossed it to you destroyers — beyond maybe ‘I wonder who’ll behead this?’ and ‘I wonder which turds will contain these dainty chicken feet?’

But, somehow, Robo-Chicken endures, undecapitated and undismembered. Feet, wings, even the flower bandana. Undeterred, the squeaky belly still works.

It’s the damndest thing. Jadie, you now use it as your dinner bell. Charlie, you love it so much you fetch it into the tub. You two will plant and wrench, one will hold the chicken by the head, the other by the feet, Robo-Chicken squeak-squawking the whole time.

Maybe that’s what you love. I know it’s what I do. Now, Robo-Chicken has become a bit of a family mascot — and stuffed Resolution for ‘23: To disregard disregard.

Not that I hold much of a hope for R.C.’s future. I wouldn’t be surprised if the undoing seam is loose already.

But aren’t they all? Your grandfather used to lament how quickly the kids got bored with Christmas gifts that took so much time to get just right. I see now what he meant.

Which makes your reaction to gesture, however small, that welcome. Who wouldn’t want to give a gift that’s played with til’ it breaks?

You know what? Christmas rocked. I hope your New Year’s is just as present.

So off with their heads! On the rack and have them drawn and quatered!

But do you have to leave it on my pillow?