SANTA DEFEATS CYNICISM; LETTER FROM NORTH POLE HELPS WHEN A LITTLE GIRL WANTS A PUPPY.

Byline: WENDY DAGER Local View

WHEN you are nearly 7 years old, you cling desperately to the belief that Santa Claus exists.

When you are nearly 7 years old and a realist - bordering on skeptic - who also happens to be Jewish, the belief that Santa exists is even harder to cling to.

That's why, when the kid handed me the letter to St. Nick, I was surprised. Not about her writing to him, because a lot of disbelieving kids still send letters to ``Santa'' - hoping their dumb parents get the message about Nintendo 64, or Barbie's Jacuzzi, or that jet-powered go-cart.

But this kid - my kid - really believed. When she gave me the letter to mail, I surreptitiously looked in her eyes for the cynic that usually resides there - the early reader who had glanced at the newspaper and asked what ``impeachment'' meant; the little connoisseur who gets ticked off when I have a sushi lunch without her; the bright bulb who had figured out her fifth-grade sister's crossword puzzle.

That is the kid I know. So unlike the sweet little girl who had written a desperate plea to Santa for a ``cute little puppy.'' It might have tugged at my heartstrings had I not remembered that we have two dogs with a combined weight of 140 pounds, plus an elderly cat who enjoys throwing up in strategic areas - like where I walk.

A cute little puppy, as charming as it seemed, was not something this particular Santa was planning to provide. Mostly because this Santa is the one who feeds, gives daily medication to and cleans up after the entire menagerie. This, in addition to being the designated Keeper of the Checkbook - the one who pays the vet bills - made me a little less sentimental about the kid's request.

No, I thought, a cute little puppy could go to someone much more naive than I.

But how to handle it?

I produced some custom-designed letterhead with Santa's picture and address - S. Claus, North Pole. Santa, in his letter, appealed to the kid's realistic nature by informing her that he was not allowed to transport live animals in his sleigh. He also said he, too, would like a puppy, but Mrs. Claus would not allow it since they already had a number of reindeer for pets. I then mailed the letter, hoping it would be a good 32-cent investment.

My instincts were correct. The kid was thrilled that Santa had even bothered to answer, and she accepted his reasons with the maturity of someone well past the first grade.

A few days later, we were at the market when she saw the jolly guy tucked in a corner giving out complimentary candy canes and hawking $6 photos. She ran over to sit with him while I forked over the money to a teen-age elf with a Polaroid. I asked the kid afterward if she had told him again that she wanted a puppy.

The kid rolled her eyes at me. ``Mo-om,'' she said, knowing how dumb I am, ``he already said he couldn't get me a puppy.''

I was amazed that Santa had only to tell her something once, and she was satisfied. Me, the mother, had to go through a never-ending screamfest to get my offspring to do what they were supposed to. Visions of many more letters - like the proverbial sugarplums - began bouncing through my feeble brain. Letters from S. Claus, telling my kids to clean up their rooms, do their homework and clean out the cat box.

``So,'' I said indulgently, ``what is it that you told him you wanted instead?''

The kid smiled. ``A Furby.''

I wonder if the local animal shelters are open on Christmas Eve.