The first thing to know about me, if I am to tell you this story, is that I’m the outcast of my family. Maybe not fully an outcast, but not fully part of the family either, not a red-headed stepchild, but a red-headed stepmother in a family where everyone else has black hair. I am the frivolous one, not stoic like the rest. I talk and make messes. I keep animals and make art; I write and sometimes tell secrets. I am not as fit and as perfect as they are. I like who I am and I’m glad that I am different but I also sometimes wish that I fit in. They make sure I know that I don’t, and I keep trying.

The Holidays are challenging for a lot of families, mine included. My family is large and not everyone is invited to everyone’s house. Divorce and children growing up has spread the family out a little. Thanksgiving means that each of my kids, and grandkids go visit and have several Thanksgiving Meals; Grandmother’s house early, Dads or parents, and finally ending with my house- Grandpa’s house-late evening.

But this year was an exception, the dinner circuit started with Grandpa. My responsibility usually falls into providing a few snack and drinks at the end of the evening, this year I got to cook the whole meal. I cooked and cleaned. I worked for days to get ready. Hoping that this time, this dinner, I would finally fit in, at least hoping that I would be included in the conversations (I’m usually ignored; it is after all Grandpa that they come to visit).

Thanksgiving morning arrived and I was up early. The table was set and everything was ready. I was expecting a little over 30 people to come in to eat. I was anxious and desperate for everything to go perfectly. I tried so hard to make it happen just right. Only the last minute things needed to be done. Mostly the dogs had to go outside, to be out of the way.

Another thing you should know about me, I have 4 dogs- labs and I have chickens as well. I do keep them separate. Oh and I have a deck and a door to the back yard in my bedroom.

Just before 2:00, the front door opened and the family started to file in. The driveway and the street in front of the house were full. Grandpa rushed to put the dogs out. Quiet, subdued greetings were directed towards Grandpa, and I started to put the food on the table. Everyone was seated and the eating had just started, when there was a loud scrambling noise from the back of the house, from my bedroom. I quickly excused myself and calmly went to see what was going on.

I opened my door and my room was full of dogs. No not just my room, my bed! Muddy dogs, rolling around and drying themselves off! I managed not to scream and started shooing them outside. I found one in my bathroom, barking at the shower. I chased him out as well. Then in the muddy bathroom, I discovered what had brought the mob in. I had a rooster in my shower.

And in-laws and disapproving family in the dining room waiting for their dinner. I quickly shut the shower door, leaving the rooster right where he was. I looked around at the mess and quickly shut the bedroom door as well. No one should need to come into the bedroom and everyone was waiting as I walked calmly and with dignity back to the quietly talking family, waiting for me to finish serving their meal. All the food made it to the table and Thanksgiving Dinner continued on its way. It was going well; everyone was eating and enjoying themselves. Then it happened. The rooster crowed, and crowed again.

I ignored it, hoping that he would stop, that everyone would think the noise was coming from outside. But, he didn’t and they didn’t either. One of the grandsons loudly asks why there is crowing from my room, as he runs to open the door. He goes to the bathroom, following the sound and finds the rooster in the shower. Of course he has to yell. “Cheryl’s got a rooster in the shower!! Come See!”

The family couldn’t ignore the opportunity to see what strange thing I had done now. They filed in, noticing the mud filled bed, the clutter that I had gathered from the rest of the house, and the rooster in the shower. It was deathly quiet, no one said anything, and they just looked; looked at the mud and the mess and the rooster. As the last of my husband’s sons walked back out of the bathroom, he turned to me and said “Don’t chickens shit a lot”?

With that comment, Thanksgiving dinner was over. Coats went on and goodbyes were said. The family went on its way. And what did I do? I had done everything I could, the meal was perfect, and the table looked great. I had failed again and yet I couldn’t stop laughing. I think that rooster was the highlight of my Thanksgiving Day.