A moveable feast was created over the past few days. We (and by "we" I do mean "we" but also I mean "mostly my wife") cooked and cooked on Tuesday, Wednesday, and today to create a full-on bitchin' Turkey Day that could be transported to my mom's house: Appetizers (including a delicious pate), salad, dinner rolls, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, fancy-ass experimental cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. Every single bit of it was home made, with the exception of the appetizer cheese and the canned cranberry schmutz that my wife likes. (Which, for all I know, is ambrosia for people who like cranberries.) Oh, and of course there was a roasted turkey, carved inexpertly by yours truly mere minutes before we left for mom's house.

In the rush, though, the rack of the turkey, as well as some delicious skin and other delectable/interesting turkey bits were left behind, such as the little nodule of goodness that hangs off the end of the cavity, and the wishbone, and a fair amount of meat from the legs and such. But we were pressed for time, these things had to be left where they were, on the kitchen table. With only a gate standing between this pile of mostly bone but also a lot of deliciousness... and the dogs. The ravenous, ravenous dogs.

As we drove away, my wife said "I sure hope they don't break down the gate and get at the rack!" We laughed nervously. Ha ha ha ha ha. Yes, that would be awful, ha ha ha.

Well, you already know what happened, don't you? Yes. They managed to break down the gate, something that they've never been motivated enough to do before. But then again we've never left the cooling remains of what has to smell like heaven to a dog nose AND the gate was a bit loose in the door frame.

The good news? Neither of the dogs died from choking to death on a splintered turkey bone. The bad news is that our kitchen looked like the pit of that monster in Star Wars - broken bits of bones everywhere - and remarkably, a few bits of turkey still left in place on the kitchen table. I guess the dogs ate and ate until they got not just full, but tired. Also, apparently one of the dogs, we know not which, was so excited at getting to eat turkey that she pissed on the floor. Whee.

Molly has been whining at us all evening, though does not actually seem to be sick. Small puffs seem to be escaping her anterior aperture, so I think she's just got gas. I imagine that'll probably happen when you crunch up that much bone and give it to your stomach acid to deal with, eh? Just rewards, my fine young pup.

So what we have learned is this:

1) Amazingly enough, Molly can actually be filled. Hard to believe but apparently true.

2) No matter HOW pressed for time, don't leave that kind of temptation not only in nose range but also in sight of these dogs. It's not fair to the dogs, and bad things will happen.

3) Make sure the gate has well-tightened wall connections at all times (especially now that they know the thing can be broken down with enough persistence - it should be solid if it's tight enough, which it wasn't tonight.)

4) Our dogs are bastard, bastard dogs. Their parents were not married.

We're going to be away the weekend of September 28-30 due to both of us being important parts of a wedding party. Anybody in LA want to come feed our dogs and let them out of the house? They'll need feeding on Friday morning through Sunday morning. I know that makes it more difficult for people with jobs. But we'll pay money! 75 bucks! You can even lounge around in our house if you want!

(Note: Lest anybody think I am asking either boffo or electricia, I am not even remotely doing so. I scoff at you for even thinking so.)

It is a sad day, but it has come to this: The giant dog can no longer be allowed on our bed. Not that we let her sleep with us or anything. She's just too big for all of us to fit into a queen-sized bed. But often, if it was only one of us in the bed, we'd let her up. Whereupon she would contrive to flop down with her entire body socked up against whichever victim was there, and immediately begin to happily snooze. She's the four-legged love attack.

But lately, in what are (for a Saint Bernard) her latter years, she has apparently become incontinent. Well, no. She does not leave pee or poo around the house under normal circumstances. But apparently being in the bed makes her *so* relaxed that, well, uh, things get a bit out of her control. More than once, apparently. The last time this happened I found not one but several spots of dog whiz.

I'm sorry she can no longer be allowed on the bed, but I simply can't rest in pees.

Stolen without shame from errforce1:

Billy Collins, "The Revenant."

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair and eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.