On December 25, 1966 morning millions of mothers across America gathered their older children to peel apples, potatoes, turnips, and carrots for our eight family members and another five-ten guests.

My older brother called it ‘KP Day’.

After the turkey was cooked almost perfection, my mother hefted the crispy-skinned carcass out of the oven and laid the big bird on the kitchen table to cook in its own skin and begin baking pies.

Around noon my next-door neighbor came over to the driveway with a football. Chuckie and I had spent the yesterday at the football game between my hometown and their arch-rivals. The two of us went into the backyard to emulate yesterday’s heroes. One of us forgot to shut the door. Ten minutes later after bobbling a long pass Chuckie pointed to the front lawn.

“What’s with DJ?”

DJ was a neighborhood dog. I was in love with his owner, Kyla. The white German Shepard had his entire head was masked by turkey and I heard my mother scream, “The turkey.”

I picked up a stick from the ground and charged to save our holiday meal. The big white dog fled with a slobbering snarl, leaving behind a mauled meal. My mother cried, “Where are we going to find a turkey now?”

My father looked at me.

“who left the door open?”

“Id id, sir.” I didn’t even bother to explain my side of the story, because when you’re wrong as a child, proving you’re right was a waste of breath.

My older brother and younger siblings sarcastically thanked me for ruining Christmas.

DJ’s owners paid for our meal at a nearby hotel. The food was good and my mother didn’t have to wash any dishes.

The next day Kyla kissed me on the cheek for not beating her dog.

So even bad Christmas can turn out okay, when life erpended on a big white dog.