A Christmas Carl: A Greyhound Ghost Story of Christmas

By John Gaspard

A delightful new take on the Charles Dickens’ classic story, “A Christmas Carol.”

Think you know this story? Well, you haven't experienced “A Christmas Carol” until you've read it through the eyes of Scrooge’s pet dog.

It's the classic tale you know, now narrated by a dog.

A greyhound named Carl.

Ebenezer Scrooge—and his faithful greyhound, Carl—are visited on Christmas Eve by the ghost of his dead partner, Jacob Marley. What follows is the story you know, but with a twist. With faithful Carl by his side, Scrooge experiences the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future, taking away a lesson that will forever change his—and Carl’s—life forever.

It's the classic you love ... but now it's a slightly different tail!

Grab it now!

★★★★★

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Gaspard
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005937942

John Gaspard

John is author of the Eli Marks mystery series as well as three other stand-alone novels, "The Greyhound of the Baskervilles," The Sword & Mr. Stone" and "The Ripperologists."He also writes the Como Lake Players mystery series, under the pen name Bobbie Raymond.In real life, John's not a magician, but he has directed six low-budget features that cost very little and made even less - that's no small trick. He's also written multiple books on the subject of low-budget filmmaking. Ironically, they've made more than the films.Those books ("Fast, Cheap and Under Control" and "Fast, Cheap and Written That Way") are available in eBook, Paperback and audiobook formats.John lives in Minnesota and shares his home with his lovely wife, several dogs, a few cats and a handful of pet allergies.

Book preview

A Christmas Carl

BOOKS BY JOHN GASPARD

The Como Lake Players Mysteries

ACTING CAN BE MURDER

DYING TO AUDITION

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The Eli Marks Mystery Series

THE AMBITIOUS CARD (#1)

THE BULLET CATCH (#2)

THE MISER’S DREAM (#3)

THE LINKING RINGS (#4)

THE FLOATING LIGHT BULB (#5)

THE ZOMBIE BALL (#6)

THE MAGIC SQUARE (#7)

THE SELF-WORKING TRICK (#8)

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Stand-Alone Novels

THE SWORD & MR. STONE

A CHRISTMAS CARL

THE GREYHOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

THE RIPPEROLOGISTS

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Filmmaking Books

FAST, CHEAP AND UNDER CONTROL

FAST, CHEAP AND WRITTEN THAT WAY

TELL THEM IT’S A DREAM SEQUENCE

WOMEN MAKE MOVIES

Title Page

CONTENTS

Preface

Marley’s Ghost

The First of the Three Spirits

The Second of the Three Spirits

The Last of the Spirits

Christmas Day

The Greyhound of the Baskervilles

Get Your Free Eli Marks Short Story Bundle

Get Your Free Como Lake Players Short Mystery

The Ambitious Card

Acting Can Be Murder

Join The Newsletter

The Sword & Mr. Stone

The Ripperologists

Books By John Gaspard

About the Author

About the Author

A Christmas Carl

First Edition | 2021

Albert’s Bridge Books

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2021

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For Flash.

You should keep dogs.

Charles Dickens

(The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club)

PREFACE

What follows is Charles Dickens’ classic, A Christmas Carol. Mostly.

It’s the same story, the same characters, and much of the same dialogue. What’s different?

Well, it’s a little shorter, a little leaner, a little less verbose in some sections. But the chief alteration is that it’s now narrated by a dog.

A greyhound, in fact, named Carl.

In the following pages, Carl tells his story of a Christmas which changed his life and the life of his master, Ebenezer Scrooge.

So, settle back. Grab a cup of tea. Start a fire in the fireplace. Put your feet up.

And enjoy A Christmas Carl.

STAVE ONE

MARLEY’S GHOST

Marley was dead, to begin with. That’s as good a starting point as any, I suppose.

I was a mere pup at the time, but I remember it well. I think one will always vividly recall meeting and losing a new master of the very same day.

To the best of my comprehension at the time, I was re-imbursement of some sort for a long unpaid loan; a last-ditch effort on the part of my previous owner to settle accounts with the demanding Mr. Marley. At the very moment of exchange, I recognized I was to be more chattel than cherished pet. There was no fawning, no excited exclamations concerning the thick, richness of my brindle coat or the ivory whiteness of my teeth. My speed and agility went unmentioned. My warm personality was, apparently, a moot point. I receive at best a cursory glance from Mr. Marley, a grunt of acceptance and then a hurried note was scratched quickly in a thick ledger.

It was unclear at that moment if his vision for me was coursing or breeding; that is, if he had any grand scheme for me at all. However, I must have proven to be an acceptable payment, for my previous master departed and Mr. Marley took me into his office. With a low, unintelligible grumble, he indicated a pile of rags on the floor. It was understood I was to make that spot my bed.

Ironically, Mr. Marley took to his own bed several hours later and by the next morning he was dead.

There was no doubt whatsoever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, and the undertaker. Finally, his chief mourner, Scrooge, signed it. And as I would come to understand in ways great and small, Scrooge's name was good for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Yes, we must be clear on this: Old Marley was as dead as a doornail. Mind you, I don't mean to say I know what there is particularly dead about a doornail. If pressed to do so, I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade.

However, without further digression, permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a doornail. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am about to relate.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. He also understood he was now the possessor—proud or otherwise—of a year-old greyhound named Carl.

I remember our moment of meeting distinctly. He surveyed me as he did the rest of Old Marley’s possessions, for each and every one of those articles was now his. Scrooge was Marley’s sole executor, his sole beneficiary, his sole friend, and sole mourner.

However, I recognized at once that Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event of Marley’s untimely passing. What limited skill I possess at reading human emotions indicated very few on Scrooge’s part. He was an excellent man of business, though, striking a sharp bargain on the expense of his deceased partner’s funeral. It was a sad and under populated affair, consisting of Scrooge, an officiant and myself. I lay quietly at Scrooge’s feet throughout the short service, uncertain to the point of nervousness as to what might lie ahead for me.

Scrooge made no remark to me after the funeral. I merely followed him home and have been by his side to this day. He has never been cruel, nor has he been fawning. I was fed and sheltered with no comment. I quickly came to understand I was merely one of the possessions he inherited from his former partner and that was the end of it.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above our warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. Often times people new to the business called Scrooge ‘Scrooge,’ and sometimes ‘Marley,’ but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

For myself, I respond with equal enthusiasm to ‘Carl’ or ‘you’ or even the slightly dismissive ‘dog!’ Scrooge treated me with greater respect than his employees and his customers, which as you will come to learn is not the highest of compliments. As for friends, I appeared to be his only. I must confess, a few short moments spent in his company and it was easy to see why.

Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone was Scrooge! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features; he carried his own low temperature always about with him and didn't thaw one degree at Christmas.

No one ever stopped him in the street to say, with a wide smile, My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me? No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even with me walking steadily at