The True Story of Rudolph

You all know the story of Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. But let me tell you my side of the story—the true story of Rudolph.

I was an orphan and arrived at the North Pole totally by accident. To be honest, I was lost. The last I saw of my mother was about three months before meeting that jolly old elf that many call Saint Nick. You see, I was born the spring before on Alaska’s North Slope. And for those of you who don’t know, that is oil country. There are oil rigs, pumping stations, miles and miles of pipe, and the most dangerous of all—trucks. Big trucks that carry all kinds of heavy equipment, and in the winter, they drive on the ice. For most of the year, the roads are too muddy for trucks that large. But in the winter, when everything is iced over, they make up lost time by driving all night. Of course, it’s always night up here in the winter, but I guess you already knew that.

And for us wildlife, well, it is a perilous time. My herd was crossing one of these “Ice Highways” when suddenly, one of those monster trucks appeared out of the darkness. When the driver saw us crossing his intended path, he hit the brakes and blew his horn. The herd scattered in every direction, but the truck slid sideways on the ice and plowed into more than a dozen animals. My mother must have been one of them, for I never saw her again.

I was scared to death and hightailed it in the opposite direction. By the time I stopped running, a blizzard had hit, and I was totally lost. I had no idea where the herd was, I didn’t know if my mother was alive or not, and I had no idea where to go. I didn’t know which way was north, south, or any other direction for that matter. I was totally lost and alone.

I wandered for weeks and weeks and never saw any living thing. It was just ice and snow. I was starving as well as freezing to death. Then, through the dark of the arctic night and the white of the relentless blizzard, I stumbled onto the North Pole. There were lights, people, well, elves actually, and other reindeer. I was saved, or so I thought.

I raced to the shelter of the barn and began gorging on the plentiful bounty of feed. But it wasn’t long before the other reindeer spotted me. Immediately, they started a ruckus. Accusing me of trespassing and stealing their food. Stealing, there was enough there to feed an entire herd of reindeer. How would one scrawny, malnourished reindeer even make a dent in their abundant supply?

Luckily, the old man heard the commotion and trudged out to see what was the matter. And after a stern reprimand, the other reindeer reluctantly allowed me to eat. I don’t think Santa saw much use in me, but he didn’t consider me a threat either. So, over the next several weeks, I learned to stay out of their way. And I did learn a lot about my fellow barn mates.

Dasher was Santa’s favorite. He was fast, alright, and he normally led the team. But as far as I could tell, he was just a stuck-up prima donna. All hat and no cattle, as they would say, in the lower forty-eight.

Then there was Dancer and Prancer. Do I need to say anything more? These two dandies cared about no one but each other. Now, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I wouldn’t want to be caught alone with either one of them. And I certainly didn’t want to play any reindeer games these two were playing.

Vixen, Comet and Cupid, boy, were they ever a threesome. You talk about a clique. These three ladies wouldn’t dream of going to the bathroom alone. They made the Three Musketeers look like hermits. Now, I do understand a little of this attitude. All of Santa’s reindeer came from Lapland or some such place. And I’m from Alaska, but we’re all the same species. So, can’t we just all get along?

Now, that leaves Donner and Blitzen: the old guard, the matriarch and the patriarch of old Saint Nick’s lineup. You’d think they would be the lead dogs; excuse me, the lead reindeer of Santa’s team. But no. After a couple of hundred years leading the pack, they’re now comfortable bringing up the rear. After all, the view only changes if you are leading, and these senior citizens have already seen it all.

So, you ask. How did I get to lead Santa’s sleigh that fateful night? Well, as the story goes, it was foggy that night. Foggy, my … antlers. It was a white-out blizzard. I couldn’t tell you if my nose was red or black, for I couldn’t see it. And if I had, it probably would have been blue from the cold.

However, I knew the elves had finished packing the sleigh, and it was time to go. I made my way over to Santa’s house and peered in through the window. And there was Santa, feet up, boots off, sitting in front of the fire with an empty bottle beside him and a half-empty one in his hand.

“Khris (it must have been a ‘Nick’ name),” I heard Mrs. Claus say,” now you get out there. You should have left already. There are good little boys and girls depending on you.”

“It’s cold out there,” Santa slurred. “A man has got to do something to keep warm.”

“Drinking a fifth of brandy is not going to keep you warm,” Mrs. Claus scolded. “Now get out there and get flying.”

I continued to peer through the glass as Santa sat up, pulled on his boots, buttoned his coat, and staggered toward me. I met him at the door and led him to the sleigh. I then trotted up to the front of the team. The elves harnessed me between and ahead of Dasher and Dancer as I was the one that led the old man to the sleigh that night.

So, was I the one with the red nose that night? No, it was old Saint Nick himself. But I’m fine with how the story has turned out, and the rest is now legend.