And yes, every family has a turkey during Thanksgiving, not a bird roasted, but rather a relative who throws a wrench into the festivities. Perhaps Aunt Nellie from Newport, or Uncle Ezra from East Pawtucket, or a cousin from the dozens who arrive to eat, drink and be scary.
This week, a tevee spot ran a piece about Thanksgiving being the best time to decide if the old folks (like me) have made plans for their golden years, and beyond that plans on what to leave the relatives in the “will.” Who gets the dog that snaps and snarls, the clock that ticks on the mantle, the family jewels? Who inherits a bundle of cash, and/or who gets nothing at all but the best wishes of the departed?
I know about snapping dogs, having sat in the attorney’s plush offices when my mom’s will was read. Not only did she leave behind a horrible little beast, but it was a beast that actually bit the attorney when he visited my mother before her death. “Who wants the dog?” said the attorney at the reading of the Will. “Not me!” said I. “Not us,” squawked my two brothers, who knew getting custody of that dog meant bad news.
“I’ll take him,” said my sister, and so she did. The dog lived out his final years in Philadelphia, doing daily battle with her two other mutts. Eventually, it went blind and bumped into walls, and eventually, it was put down. I’m almost certain the aforementioned attorney would have loved to pull the trigger himself.
When I exit earth, I hope to leave nothing behind. That should be easy, as I have nothing, nary a bird, cat nor dog. Frankly speaking, I always detested my mom’s dog. Oh sure, it could fetch the Kansas City Star, but getting it pried from the dog-jaws was almost impossible, and when his drooling mouth finally gave it over, it was in shreds. After mom died, I spent a few days in Kansas City at her home, sleeping in her big bed, only to wake in the a.m. with the dreaded dog standing over me, with both of his ratty paws on either side of my head. The beast refused to let me rise and shine, so I remained a prisoner until one of my brother’s came to the rescue.
That dog was born bad! A strange mix of poodle and cur, I don’t know what she saw in the beast. There was nothing to LOVE. The dog even bit her.
Anyway, let me tell you, Thanksgiving gatherings are the very worst time to settle who gets what when grams and gramps decide they’ve had it here on earth. Pass the gravy, I’ll take some white meat, and one scoop of green bean casserole, but not the glop made by Aunt Nellie.
What time do the Packers play?
