Personal Narrative: Moby and My Thanksgiving Secret

Moby and My Thanksgiving Secret

My eyes scanned the food table and came to a stop when I got a slight whiff of freshly made cookies. My nostrils flared and my hand was drawn to the plate of cookies. “Wait a minute sweetie. I don’t think you should ruin your appetite by filling up on sweets,” my grandma said gently. “They look so yummy though,” I whimpered. The hand withdrew from the plate, but I still hungered for the cookies. It was Thanksgiving day and my mom’s side of the family had come over to enjoy a day of eating turkey. My parents prepared a banquet fit for a king with a plump turkey, rich smooth potatoes, stuffing, gravy, freshly made bread and salad. But they also had my two enemies: chunky cranberry sauce and squishy, mushy squash. You know the kind that’s radiant orange, which you mash like potatoes. I was too young to make my own plate so my mom put a little of everything on my dinner plate. The table that I sat at with my two grand parents, five uncles and aunts, and ten cousins was long and made out of oak. My little body was perched in the chair as I swung my feet back and forth impatiently. My mom’s side of the family is the kind that like to dilly dally saying “Wait! I forgot this or let me make this,” which by the way makes us late for everything. We finally gathered at the table. As my family said grace my mind was trying to comprehend and keep up with all the possibilities of what I would eat first, but mainly I was thinking about how I wanted to devour all the food on my plate, so I could get to the dessert. I went into a feeding frenzy. My teeth sunk into the bread slathered with melted butter. With my other hand I stuffed my mouth with turkey and mashed potatoes. Before I knew it my plate was polished with not a morsel left or so I thought. Everyone was clearing up and leaving the dining room, but my dad told me to stay. I said “Why?” He replied, “look at your plate you're not finished.” “But. I don’t want to! Mom pleease, no I’ll do anything.” “Come on sweety eat all your food and then you can have all the desserts you want.” Why. Why. Why. I’m always left with the short end of the rope. Me versus my two full grown parents. No way were my parents giving up. They were pulling the rope and I was being dragged along for the journey. I guess they want to teach me to eat what’s out of my comfort zone, but I for one hated it. Dad left and shut both doors leaving me abandoned and alone. My face turned green and I froze like a statue. Right in front of me was my dinner plate half filled with a glob of squash and cranberry sauce. I started to cry. My mouth was trembling and I could barely talk to myself. “Hhooww am I going to eat all of that.” I’d rather die. I picked up my fork which was clenched and shaking in my hand and put some squash on it. The squash reached my mouth and I gagged as it hit my tongue. It did not reach my throat. Instead it splattered all over the table and my plate. I grabbed my milk and and chugged it. The only way to have dessert was to finish dinner and no way was I going to miss out on vanilla ice cream and cookies. The gears in my head started to speed up, trying to concoct a plan. I could try eating this mess with milk. No, that plan already failed. My eyes scoped the room, but nothing came to my mind. Wait, I got it! I could spread my food under this oriental rug. No, I’m not that mean either, I’ve already tormented this rug when I used to dump orange juice on it. I got nothing. I was a trapped animal surrounded by predators with no escape route. But then I saw something right by my side I hadn’t noticed. It was Moby, my dog. Relief washed over me. My face turned into a sour grin like the grinch when he got a plan to ruin Christmas. My hand took my fork and brushed the food on the rug for my dog to feast on. My worst nightmare just transformed into my dog’s treasured trophy. It was like I was connected to my dog using telepathy hearing him go “mmmm mm.” He was gobbling up the gross mush as I gazed with amusement. When he was finished he even licked the rug repeatedly so not a single scrap was left behind. How’s that for a turn of events? The prey just syked out the predator. I left the room petting my dog. Saying, “this will be our little secret.”