Three nights before Christmas, Pigúiça had a problem as big as a mountain. She still didn't have a present for Fofuxo.
She wanted to give him something enormous. Something sparkly. Something that would make Fofuxo shout for joy and spin around chasing his own tail.
She went to the clearing to ask the gang for ideas. Bolota was going to give a cushion with golden fringe. Tico was going to give a new brush with a silver handle. They both talked fast and happily, and the presents sounded prettier and prettier.
Pigúiça looked down at her own paws. She didn't have a cushion, or a brush, or any golden fringe. She only had four paws, twenty little toes, and a lot of wanting.
So she wandered through the garden, thinking. She stopped in front of a flower bed and, as always happens on Dogavios, all the flowers turned to her at the same time. “May I take one petal from each of you?” she asked. The flowers swayed yes. The butterflies strolling by landed on her head, curious.
With the petals, Pigúiça painted a piece of white ribbon. She rubbed on blue, she rubbed on yellow, she rubbed on pink. The ribbon came out striped, a little smudgy, with a bit of grass stuck to it.
Then she tried to tie a bow. It came out crooked. She tried again. Even more crooked. The third time, she tied a knot in the shape of a bone, which was also crooked, but you could tell it was a bone.
On Christmas Eve, she hid the present behind her back. She felt shy. Next to the cushion with golden fringe, her bow looked, well, a little bit crooked.
“Merry Christmas, Fofuxo,” she said, holding out the ribbon. “I made it myself. It came out ugly.” Fofuxo looked. His eyes turned deep blue, the way they do when he has something important to say.
“Pigúiça, it's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me,” he said. “I can feel every petal. I can feel your time, your paw, this bone knot. No store in the world sells that.”
He put the ribbon around his neck, and it sat a little sideways, right over his heart. “Now I carry a piece of you everywhere I go,” he said.
And from behind the tree he pulled out a small package. It was a smooth stone, one of the ones that sing softly, painted by hand. On top, in blue paint, it said PIGÚIÇA. Only the accent on the Ú had lain down on its side.
Their laughter mixed together. The stone sang hmmm, hmmm, as if it were happy too.
That night, Pigúiça slept with the stone tucked under her chin. Fofuxo slept with the crooked bow around his neck. And each of them dreamed of a gift that nobody can wrap.
