Just North of Whoville by Turiskylie, Joyce (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) 📗

did,” my mother added. “He liked carrots, too. Didn’t he, Dorrie?”

“Yeah,” I said all blubbery.

But when my father picked up the shovel, I completely lost it. I fell to the ground sobbing and clutching the fancy perfume box that was Cuddles’ coffin. Chanel No. 5. Never had a dead hamster smelled so good. I kissed the box and cried and hugged it while my mom kept saying, “Oh honey, don’t open the box. Please. Just leave him in the box, honey.”

As Cuddles was lowered into the one foot-deep hole, I threw myself to the ground, ripping out bits of dried grass and sobbing till I could barely breathe. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. The next day, it started to snow. I began sobbing as snow fell onto his grave, worried he would be cold. I was allowed to take a blanket out to cover his grave and stay with him till I was told I would “catch my death”. I cried for almost two weeks for a hamster I’d barely known for twenty-four hours.

I devoted the entire next year of my life to animals. I begged to go to the zoo constantly, watched documentaries on TV about penguins and lions, played “Farm” with my miniature toy farmhouse, and colored pictures of almost every animal on the planet and stuck them to the refrigerator with letter-shaped magnets.

One of the nuns at my school noticed my love of animals, and told me about St. Francis of Assisi, the Patron Saint of Animals. To be honest, I was a little peeved because I had already decided to be a saint when I grew up----and that I waould be the Patron Saint of Animals. But that darn St. Francis beat me to it.

My first career disappointment.

Nevertheless, I decided that I could do better than a saint. The following year for Thanksgiving, I stood up at the dinner table and announced that I would NOT be eating turkey, because a turkey was an animal and eating animals was wrong. I would not judge them on their choice to eat the bird, but I refused to participate.

“Well, okay sweetheart,” my Mom agreed. “You don’t have to eat the turkey if you don’t want to. What would you like me to make you for dinner then?”

I sat down righteously and declared, “I’ll just have a hot dog”.

I think I made my point.

I don’t mind Black Friday. Hard workers don’t always have a lot of time for Christmas shopping. So for those of you who enjoy taking that extra day you may get off work to get a jumpstart on the madness that is Christmas---more power to you.

But Black Thursday is another thing. Forcing poorly paid retail workers to end their “holiday” in the afternoon so they can get a few hours of sleep, and then up in time to be at work for the midnight sale…

Even during the Industrial Revolution they let the factory workers take a holiday off. Geez.

St. Dorrie of Milwaukee. Patron Saint of Retail Workers. It could happen.

Strangely, while the new American tradition seems to be opening retail stores on Thanksgiving, this doesn’t extend to grocery stores. Maybe because they have unions. Must be pretty strong unions if they can close on the one day when people need food the most.

I found this out the hard way.

“Closed for Thanksgiving”, the sign read.

I knew my even going there was a moral conundrum in my bid for sainthood, but it wasn’t like I wanted a sale price on the latest electronic gadget. I just wanted some food.

Luckily, a halal butcher shop had chosen to stay open.

“I have turkey feet,” the Pakistani man suggested.

“Well….I can’t really serve feet as a main course.”

“I have turkey neck.”

“Thanks….but it’s just not as festive.”

“Wait! Wait,” he suddenly cried out. “Just a minute,” he said as he ran into a back room. A minute later he came out with something wrapped in butcher paper. “Turkey breast,” he proclaimed triumphantly. Then he sniffed it to be sure, “It’s good.”

Taking his word for it, I then proceeded to my side dishes---some potatoes from the Chinese vegetable stand, a few canned goods from the Egyptian deli, some cider from the Spanish bodega, and bread at the 7-11 from the Indian guys.

A real American Thanksgiving.

As I made my way back to my apartment with my numerous bags, I suddenly realized my travels had led to a road block.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Shit.

I will never understand parades. It’s just a lot of stuff going by. Oh, here comes something. And there it goes. Oh, here comes something else. And there it goes. Probably what a goldfish thinks every time you walk past the tank.

The streets were blocked off with blue NYPD barricades for blocks as the parade was in full swing. North or South, there was no way I was getting past Sixth Avenue.

As I made my way thru the crowd, I saw a small break in the parade between the Cincinnati high school marching band and the Shriner’s Club Clowns. At the intersection, there was a break in the police barricades.

I guessed it was where you could cross.

I took a deep breath, held onto my grocery bags, and took off running across the street.

Just then, a motorcade of clowns sped by, causing me to trip over a large television cable and I dropped my groceries. My potatoes rolled down the street. A police officer tried to step in to help, but a clown got to me first.

I should probably mention now that I’m terrified of clowns. I believe it stems from an early Jack-in-the-Box incident. A clown helping me to my feet sent me into shock.

I just stood there. Frozen. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Meanwhile, the clowns began juggling my sweet potatoes and used my loaf