It was a grand Thanksgiving feast. I had rented two enormous side by side beach houses able to bed a party of 20 along with my two dogs. My wife and I prepared a fabulous meal with all the standard sides of Potatoe, asparagus, muffins, cranberry’s, some of those God afoul jarred pearl onions and topped by the most scrumdiddleumpcious pumpkin and pecan pies. All centered of course by a turkey.
The turkey was my one and only responsabilty…..well along with the stuffing and giblet gravy I would make from its various entrails.
The bird I found was just magnificent. A 24-pound Butterball, 28 pounds if you count the crumbs, mushrooms, sausages, onions, garlic and seasonings I stuffed up its private quarters.
My meticulous care had me basting it with butter every half hour or so. Five hours later I had achieved golden perfection.
But I was not done. The succulent, dripping deliciousness of my bird needed to sit for a bit before the devouring commenced. So, I had a plan: Everyone on the beach for a few spectacular celebratory firework rockets I had planted in the sand.
Everything was perfect, planned for maximum effect and joy.
Then we went to eat.
I am not sure who first noticed it, but I do recall the looks on Madison’s face (my golden retriever) and that on Jefferson’s (my border collie). They were expressions of the utmost joy and appreciation.
The slimy slick had crossed the kitchen floor a dozen times as they had competed in obvious efforts to both play with and devour my golden perfection.
Since that wonderful Thanksgiving pizza day, I have always given some turkey thanks to my dogs first.
Richard Kimball
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