every holiday is an opportunity for personal disasters. None of them are pretty, and mostly they just smell of disappointment more than turkey; your expectation or hope that the nuts would abandon the asylum for just one meal enjoyed in Rockwell-like tones is rebuffed, again, and you realize that the best family is going to be the one you make yourself.

Which is why the story I remember most clearly about Thanksgiving (other than, possibly, this one -- see my Turkey post at DP) primarily involves pets rather than people.

Misha was our first Samoyed, purchased as an astonishingly cute puppy by my husband and me as our ersatz child. (We weren't planning on any). She came as close to anything I've ever known to convincing me about reincarnation; having some strange human tendencies. Like she enjoyed walking on her hind legs. She sang, beautifully, but only to the theme from "Fresh Air" on NPR. She once watched us eat pesto, then, no lie, dug the used stalks of basil out of the garbage and put them on some recovered pasta. Scary.

On the other hand, she had a true Northern dog's running ability, and more than that, need. Whenever the door opened she bolted out and ran for hours, leaning in tantalizingly close to you only to change direction and leave you wiped out on a corner. She remains the only living creature I ever watched accelerate running uphill. I know, it's odd, but she did that as if she were running for the pure joy of it. Despite all that exercise, she was ungovernable. Sweet and lovely by nature, and totally utterly resistant to commands.

The first Thanksgiving my husband and I hosted for my mother, her gentleman friend, and my grandmother, my husband decided he was going to teach the dog to come so she'd be better behaved when they got there. He took her outside with a length of rope and a dog training book under one arm and her and her leash on the other. He went to the overgrown acreage behind our house (a formal garden left to go wild) replaced the leash with the long rope and started calling her to come. Instead she saw a doe, broke the rope and immediately peeled off in chase.

What my husband saw next amazed him. The dog ran down the deer just like a nature program. She circled it repeatedly, cut off all its avenues of escape, and just wore it down. She sank her teeth into its haunches and started ripping away. My husband, city boy, was horrified. He tried to help the doe, who panicked, kicked him repeatedly with her front hoofs. She was so weak it didn't make a difference. The dog looked at him as if he were the dumbest thing on earth -- trying to help the prey escape? Nuts.

I didn't see any of this, being ensconced in the crappy little kitchen we had then making pie. This wasn't easy, I hadn't made one before and things were getting ugly. He led the dog back in the house and her face and front paws were completely covered in blood. He told me the story and was nearly moved to tears for the poor doe.

Just then, my mother and her little entourage pulled in. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that the dog was licking deer blood off her legs, my mother immediately ran over to kiss her. As did my grandmother. (Dog-lovers, the whole pack of us). The boyfriend looked a little worried. My husband was rubbing blood sweat and tears off his face when he got hugged, too. The mother stayed clueless. The killer dog proceeded to nuzzle my grandmother for the rest of the night as if she were a tiny Bichon and not as if she'd just spent the last hour hunting game. My mother kept mewling about how sweet that pooch was and complaining how I wasn't keeping the house clean enough for the dog. (Not kidding here).

My husband and I kept drinking, waiting to see if she'd spring and bite the boyfriend. It never happened. And the pie turned out okay too.