"Dawon, what is this?!" Basil waved the papers irately. "Ratigan met his demise six months past! Why are you writing fallacies concerning how you imagine his accomplices spent the Yuletide season?!"

The doctor calmly replied, "I see no harm in a few fictitious short stories."

Taking a deep breath, the detective tried to conceal his aggravation. "We are mice of science, doctor. Fairy tales are best left to children. If you wish to write anecdotes, that is your decision, but a renowned axiom advises it is best to write material concerning a subject with which one is quite familiar, and although you have spoken with a few reformed members of Ratigan's criminal ring, you know nothing of felons. If you insist upon the ludicrous notion of writing accounts of the holidays, you really ought to attempt nonfiction."

Following his friend's advice, Dawson began to write yet again.

'Twas the night before Christmas,

And to my chagrin

Basil was playing carols

On his violin.

I had been nestled

All snug in my bed,

And thoughts of strings breaking

Soon raced through my head.

This violin was

The bane of the nation,

Often played during

An interrogation.

When I could take no more

Of this din and clatter,

I rushed from my room

To see what was the matter.

Basil turned to me.

And said, "Sorry, old chap!

Did I awaken you

From your long winter's nap?"

"What is it," I asked,

"That ails you today?

The first stroke of midnight

Is minutes away!"

"Is it now?" he queried.

"Are we really so near it?

I suppose I am haunted

By three Christmas spirits."

I frowned in bewilderment,

Scratching my head.

"What the Dickens?" I asked.

"Precisely!" he said.

"The first," he began,

"Is of Yuletides long past.

Alas for my youth

And time vanished too fast!"

He sighed, "Long ago,

Ratigan was my friend,

And neither of us knew

That this trust soon would end,

"Yet even our hatred

Has ended too soon.

I'll see him nevermore,

For he perished last June,

"But his memories still haunt me,

And I feel no spite,

So it is in his honor

I drink this tonight."

So saying, he raised his glass,

But it was plain

To see that his heart

Was still writhing in pain.

Thoughts of his former

Friend's recent demise

Tightened Basil's throat

And had moistened his eyes.

Ignoring the memories

That dampened his cheek,

Basil cleared his throat,

And once more he did speak.

"The second," he stated,

"Is clearly more pleasant.

The spirit I mention

Is that of Christmas present.

"I speak of the ruffians

Now in their cells,

No more to commit felonies,

And the bell

"That once gave their boss

All his pride and his glory

Rests now on my mantel;

You recall the story:

"After the demise of

The world's greatest rat,

Felicia reformed her ways,

As did the bat.

"Mousedom is much safer,

That's no mystery,

Now that Ratigan's ring

Of thugs is history."

It was here Basil paused,

Raising his glass again,

"Here's to what shall be now

Rather than 'might have been'!"

"The third spirit," he finished,

"Is that of a future

Spent with the one who claimed

I should accept sutures

"When I was unscathed

After my final fight

With Ratigan on the

Clock tower that night!

"I was not at all harmed,

Yet still you insisted

That I needed help,

And so I resisted.

"I was not wounded,

Yet you still bandaged me!

That was most unprofessional,

You must surely agree.

"Still I have no regrets

About the next day:

You were leaving, old chap,

But I asked you to stay.

"We're an excellent team

Against felons, we two!

And so, my dear Dawson,

I toast now to you!"

He emptied his glass;

Then he stretched and he said,

"Pleasant dreams, Doctor.

I retire to bed."

Looking on toward the future,

Enjoying the present,

And recalling the past

Make life meaningfully pleasant,

And I knew in the depths

Of his vast memory,

Basil remembered

And cherished all three.

Let us all learn and try

To do the same if we might.

Merry Christmas to all,

And to all a good night