• MY THANKSGIVING MEMORIES

    By Trixie Koontz, Dog

    Turkey. Good turkey. Turkey, turkey, turkey. Pumpkin pie. Yams. Yams stick to roof of mouth. Don't like yams. Yams taste like bad cat. Ha, ha, ha. I never really ate a cat. Am told they taste worse than Satan's toes. I am good dog, good. Turkey, turkey. Chestnut filling. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Gravy is what God drinks instead of water. Gravy and turkey—bliss. Gravy and mashed potatoes—to die for. Gravy and pumpkin pie—mistake. Gravy and chestnut filling—delicious. Tried gravy and cat. Cat became very angry.

    My first Thanksgiving memory is landing on Plymouth Rock with Pilgrims. That was in another life. I was a goat. Sailed all the way from England. Butted lots of Pilgrims overboard for fun. They wanted to eat me for Thanksgiving. But Indians brought gifts of corn and turkey and Hostess cupcakes. When I was goat, I owed my life to Indians.

    I remember Thanksgiving 1878. Was cow-herding dog in the Old West. Liked cows. Much in common with cows. Cows don't like yams. Cows think cats are stupid. My master had no turkey that year. Only cows. I could not eat my friends the cows. In dark of night, I set the cow herd loose. "Run, dear cows!" I whispered. "Run, run, for your lives, dear cows! Be free like cats and yams and other things that taste too bad to eat!" In their excitement to be free, they trampled me to death.

    The next thing I remember, it is 1916, and I am a cat. This is The Reincarnation We Don't Talk About.

    Later I was a human male. Owned corner grocery in Brooklyn. Married girl named Stella. She was nice except for small second head in middle of her back. Didn't know about second head until after wedding. Stella Two, the second head, was not nice. Talked about Stella One behind her back. Cursed a lot. Ate yams. Stella Two prayed to Moloch after midnight. Moloch is not a nice god. He eats small children. I prefer the Judeo-Christian tradition.

    While human, I owned ten dogs and fed them well. Storing up good karma for my next incarnation. Dogs would not come in house. Scared of Stella Two. Scared of Moloch, too, who sometimes manifested in the refrigerator. Had no yard in Brooklyn. Dogs lived on roof. So did I, more nights than not.

    Now am dog again in new life with my dad, writer of books, Dean Koontz. This is what we are thankful for in the Koontz house this Thanksgiving: that Dad has new book coming out, that Mom, also known as Gerda, doesn't have second head, that in our lifetime Earth will be visited by extraterrestrial dogs of vast intelligence (this is secret), that somewhere a family of free cows roams forests and fields (happy descendants of those I set loose), and that we have lots of gravy, no cats, no yams. God bless you on this holiday. I don't mean that Moloch god, either, but the nice one.
     

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