One Thanksgiving got crazier than usual when our dog, Max, refused to stop barking at the turkey my husband had just picked up.
I thought the dog wanted to eat a piece, but when I removed the plastic covering, I realized Max was alerting me to something that had me calling for immediate help.
I’m Athena, but everyone calls me Ace. I’m a 32-year-old wife, dog mom, and, as of last Thanksgiving, the unwitting star of a crime thriller. Okay, not really, but that’s what came to my mind back then.
It all started Thanksgiving morning.
My husband, Kyle, offered to grab the turkey we had pre-ordered at the local organic butcher shop so I could focus on the chaos in the kitchen. “I’ll be back soon!” he said, cheerful as ever, before heading out.
I should’ve known something was off when “soon” turned into over an hour.
When Kyle finally returned, he looked frazzled. His hair was messier than usual, and his smile seemed forced.
“Took longer than I thought.
Had to hit three places and help Mom with something. Everything’s fine, though,” he said, breathless.
But before I could ask for details on what happened, his phone buzzed. “Great.
Mom’s car broke down in the middle of the road. Gotta go help her, and I’m probably driving her here.” And just like that, he was out the door again.
That was weird, even for Kyle, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Thanksgiving offered no breaks.
While I was juggling pies and side dishes, Max started going nuts.
He’s usually excited on Thanksgiving because he knows scraps are coming his way, but this was different.
He stood in front of the counter where the turkey sat, barking his head off like a maniac.
“Max, enough! You’re not getting raw turkey,” I scolded gently, but he didn’t care. He kept pacing, barking, and jumping up like he was trying to reach the turkey.
“Seriously?” I muttered, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
“What is your deal, buddy? I know you like this holiday, but this isn’t like you.”
Twenty minutes of relentless barking later, I gave in. “Fine.
Let’s take a look at this turkey, but I’m not giving you any.” My dog stared at me with his wide, gorgeous eyes and barked one more time.
I sighed and grabbed some kitchen scissors to remove the turkey’s plastic wrapping. At first, nothing was amiss, but Max barked again and whined.
“No, boy. This is raw.
You’re not used to a raw diet, so you’re not getting anything,” I repeated and even lifted the turkey to show him, ensuring that he couldn’t reach it.
But as I moved it, I noticed more plastic coming from its… well, butt. I hadn’t asked for it to be pre-stuffed. So, I put it down and reached inside, only to unearth a plastic bag with money inside.
Thousands of dollars in cash.
Max started barking at the bag and forgot all about the turkey. So, that was his goal all along!
“What the—?” I whispered, staring at the turkey, bewildered. Why was there money in the turkey?
Did Kyle know about this? Was it even ours? Did the butcher shop send the wrong one?
Was something going on here?
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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