This day known as Thanksgiving has always been the cruelest.

I tell you — in my many years in this monochrome world, I have upheld my integrity and never begged or whined for even a morsel of the culinary goodness my arthritis-free Two Leggers enjoy.  I may only see in black, white and gray, but those smells … oh, those delicious smells, how my pets tease me …

And on this “Turkey Day”:  various species of poultry, swine, steamy vegetables of all shades, sweet, sugary goodness in pans like my food … and in that American tradition, cinnamon.  Cinnamon everywhere.

Those delicious, mouth-watering aromas waft over the table and settle on the floor with me … like a desert mirage tempting me with water I had long-last known.

I resist.  It is beneath my nature to succumb to The Urge — a frenetic fit that takes over lesser members of the Canine family, causing barking, howling, scowling, begging, pleading for the Two Leggers’ attention so a smaller, less noticeable Chihuahua or Boston Terrier can sneak behind and steal treats from the paper-mâché Pilgrim Man Shrine.

Oh, the pain.

For once, you’d think my pets would have enough compassion — to think of someone other than themselves for even a miniscule moment in their abnormally long lives — to offer me something.  Anything.  Even just a bone with which to sharpen my teeth (though perhaps they fear the rump-aimed retaliation such toned pearly whites would wreak).

For the love of all that is holy and bacon — please help me tame The Beast without losing my dignity!

My friends.


My trusty, cardboard-tasting “dog food” it was.  Again.

To top it all off, when nature called, I waddled to the back porch (OA, like my mother, is a bitch), only to discover that the ground had completely disappeared, and the light sky shockingly stretched from the heavens right up to the wood on which I stood.

I piddled right there.