My new Thanksgiving joke

Stop me if you’ve heard this one:

Two Canadians, two Americans, and a dog sit down to Thanksgiving dinner.

Canadian dude says, “Where does your dog poop, eh?”
American guy says, “No, she poops on the rug.”

What do you mean you don't get it?

I’ll explain. Thanksgiving dinner was at our place this year. Crissy prepared her 3rd consecutive ridiculously delicious Thanksgiving meal. Except this year we invited our hilarious Canadian friends over to celebrate the day that the Pilgrims and the Indians invented sausage gravy. As I understand it.

Anyway, Jesse and Holly brought their 7-month old daughter Pippa over just after noon, which meant that Jesse and I were legally allowed to begin consuming alcohol thanks to the Holiday loophole. I cracked a bottle of red, babies were sprawled on the floor like squirmy landmines, Franny disapproved from afar, and we were off to the races.

And then, for some reason, out of the blue, Wes decided to deliver a Christmas miracle early this year. He busted out a 2.5 hour nap… Right. Through. Thanksgiving. Dinner.



It was truly amazing. Crissy and I were positive he’d be up any minute, so we touched wine glasses and swallowed our turkey whole like seagulls. Which left 2.4 hours to sigh deeply, groan, and drink wine. Also invented by the Pilgrims.

Eating so fast also meant that there were plenty of table scraps left over for Franny. Too many.



Once the Holy Nap, Forgiver of Sins finally ended, we all went for a great walk along Brooklyn Bridge Park. The sun was setting, the kids were happy, and all was right in the world.

Jesse, Holly, and Pippa were troopers. We put Wes to bed around 7, they put Pippa in Wes' swing, and they both slept soundly in the next room while the grownups contributed to the obesity epidemic. They stuck around until around 11 o’clock, chatting and laughing while the kids slept, which is about as close as you get to an adult pajama party. It was a fantastic time.



The next morning, Crissy was awakened by the smell of fresh corpse. She asked me to investigate. I tiptoed out into the main room to discover that Franny had absolutely destroyed two of the Flor rug squares, which she hasn't done in a really long time. She was very sorry, and very worried. We assured her it was ok, it was our fault for giving her so much food. But that smell...my god the smell. It was indescribable. Is decomposition-ey a word? It should be.

As we searched for replacement squares at the new Flor store in Brooklyn, the employee asked us what happened. I pointed to Franny. “Too much turkey for the mutt.”

The employee looked concerned.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to feed dogs turkey. It’s really bad for them.”
“Noo, I don’t think that’s right. Is it? We just ahh… that can’t be right.”

Yes. It is right. Don’t feed your dog turkey. It can actually be very, very dangerous for them. The skin and bones can even kill them. Or at least make their poop smell dead. Which is almost as bad.

Get it? The Canadian is saying “eh,” but the American thinks he’s saying “hay.”

Forget it.