Craig — New Year’s Day.

I am sprawled on the pavement at the San Francisco Zoo, a red liquid substance, possibly my own blood, is puddled underneath me. My eyes open, and I notice a Siberian Tiger standing over me.

He is chewing on my leg and is wearing a dinner napkin tucked inside a spiked, leather collar that has diamond letters spelling out his name (1). He notices me awake.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” the Tiger says.

“OK, then,” I reply.

Before I fall back into my coma, I notice my dead grandmother and the basketball coach from “Teen Wolf” having a POW-WOW nearby. They turn to me and speak:

“Never play cards with someone who has the same first name as a city,” coach says, “and never get less than 12 hours of sleep.”

“This is no way for a young man to behave, Joshua,” adds my prim and proper grandmother.

Dig it, coach.

Absolutely correct, grandma.

This is how I spent part of my New Year’s Day morning – trapped in a warped, alcohol-induced jaunt through bizarro dream world. And, truth be told, this is a fairly typical response for me on the holidays – days that traditionally unfold with me paying homage to my Irish-Catholic roots and drinking myself stupid.

Some friends came over to my place on New Year’s Eve. Earlier in the day, my boss, Jerry Raehal (2), informed me that I would be hosting a gathering later in the night.

This distressed me considering I like to spend my free time at church services, volunteering at soup kitchens, rescuing orphans from burning buildings and reading old English poetry with a cup of hot tea (3).

Anyway, people came over for the holiday, brought items like champagne, wine and, in separate cases, a black feather boa that looked like sewed together clippings from Allen Iverson and Carmelo Anthony’s braids, and a chocolate cake.

The small party went off relatively well (4), was mostly civilized and nothing was damaged.

But, that’s not where the story, if there is one (5), lies.

That would be the next day’s fallout.

You see, I woke up – the dream of the tiger tearing through my flesh shocked me awake – stumbled out to my living room and came across an even stranger scene.

Witness: a bent snow shovel standing next to the doorway, boa braids strewn across the carpet and my dog, Luke, sitting atop my kitchen table with his snout buried deep into the remains of a chocolate cake.

I blink and look again: Luke looks at me, then starts licking the top of a Heineken bottle.

This is no dream, this is actually happening.

Flashback from the night before: everyone goes home, I take Luke outside to do his business and walk around a corner bush to see a pack of wild, devious deer. For some reason I have a snow shovel. The deer stare at me hard, plotting their coordinated attack, I surmise.

The mutt lets out blood curdling yelps and chases the cowardess deer across Yampa Avenue.

I am smiling and laughing and beaming with pride for I am the owner of a Sheltie as vicious as God’s hands ever produced.

The shovel I’m leaning on gives and I fall to the ground, smacking my head on a chunk of ice. Luke returns from his brush with the deer, cocks his head sideways and licks me on the cheek.

So, that’s my story.

Today, I am bruised and battered. I have a headache, a possible concussion, cottonmouth, a sack of empty cups, wayward bottles and boa remnants to throw in the trash, and this stupid column to finish.

I exchanged no kisses at midnight, made no resolutions for the New Year and have come to accept the very real possibility that the next few weeks and months of my life will be filled with attempting to grow a beard (6), dreading the pain of being inked with a tattoo (7), and trying to head the advice of my late grandmother (8).

The holidays are awesome (9).

(1) Steve.

(2) Slave driver.

(3) Untrue.

(4) Though I seem to recall today swearing pledges to attempt to grow a beard and acquiring multiple tattoos by my upcoming 30th birthday.

(5) There isn’t.

(6) Which I can’t.

(7) Which I won’t get.

(8) Which I’ll probably ignore.

(9) They suck.