The chocolate coins are all eaten but one, a golden dollar that escaped (for now), and shiny disks of chocolate-tinged foil are turning up all around the house.
The contents of the clear plastic candy-cane shaped tubes bearing Hershey's Kisses and gummy Krabby Patties (the burger Spongebob makes at his fry-cook day job) are virtually empty.
Even the hard, essentially flavorless, little Spongebob-shaped Pez-like bits have all disappeared (down the sink, in the case of the ones Ulysses gave to me, one after another, that I surreptitiously and temporarily stashed on a platter of turkey debris).
Yet the merry row of seven chocolate Santas remains intact.
On Christmas Day, when Ulysses unwrapped a long, light, rectangular package to find a box of brightly wrapped Santas, he was delighted.
"Open this box, open, open!"
He inspected the Santas and pried from the blister bedding the rightmost one, a jolly fellow in red against a green background. Carefully, eagerly, he peeled away the foil wrapper to hold the bare chocolate Santa between forefinger and thumb. He lifted it to his mouth. He stopped.
Ulysses held the chocolate figurine a litle farther from his face and regarded it for several seconds.
"I can't do it," he said, finally. "I can't eat Santa."
He looked up at us dolefully.
"Do you want me to put the wrapper back on?" said Donald.
Ulysses nodded.
A few moments of careful re-wrapping later -- the foil hadn't come off in one piece -- and Santa was back with his brethren.
And there he remains to this day.
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