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The whole time Brian can't understand what could be wrong with throwing our hands up in the air. "We are 18 for dinner," I remind him. "Do you think those two pumpkin pies are going to feed 18 people? If my sister ruined the turkey today, do you think she'd just shrug it off and not find a way to fix the situation?" "Not your sister." Whatever that means. pogrom We are, of course, the last ones to arrive. We are immediately greeted by the dog, Boomer, aka Bummer, on account of him biting everyone, including my mother's pogrom two pogrom precious golden retrievers that she would never leave home alone all day. Last Thanksgiving Bummer tore into Mandy, the older golden, in a territorial fashion, and my mother had to find a vet willing to stitch her up after his turkey dinner. We sent along some pie for him--the vet. So I realize upon entering the kitchen and finding my mother's goldens curled up on their travel beds, that this year Bummer gets to spend the holiday outside at his own house.
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