Thanksgiving Feast Heist

Ursula prowled the backyard hunting for food scraps that may have missed the garbage bin thanks to her owner’s clumsiness. It was warm for November, and the sunlight shimmered off the remaining leaves persistent enough to still cling to trees. By noon, the temperature might be plus or minus ten degrees, as was common in the Midwest. A banging from the kitchen caused the cat’s muscles to tense, and she arched her back. Movement from the corner of her eye drew her attention, but she soon relaxed.    

           “Hey, Roscoe,” Ursula said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“What was that noise?” Roscoe’s eyes were wide, his ringed tail tucked close to his body. He rubbed his paws together—whether from nervousness or recently having eaten, Ursula was unsure. It was difficult to tell with raccoons.

“Mom’s cooking. Poor thing can’t tell a roasting pan from my litter box.”

Roscoe’s nose crinkled. “Smells good.”

“It’s Thanksgiving, you know.” Ursula shrugged like it was any other day. “She wants lunch ready when everyone arrives.”

“It’s Thanksgiving?” Roscoe stared at the sky. “Man, could have fooled me.”

“Yes, that’s easy to do.” The cat swished her tail.

Roscoe ignored the insult. He grew twitchy and shifted on his back paws. “Who’s coming?”

“The man. The woman. Another woman. It’s a family reunion.”

“Any babies?” he asked.

Ursula cocked her head. “Let me think,” she said. “Fur or skin?”

The raccoon shivered. “Come on, Ursula! Fur babies.”

She raked her claws through the dirt. “The woman doesn’t go anywhere without Miss Superiority Complex—a.k.a. Bella—she’s the French Bulldog you’ve met.”

Roscoe relaxed. “I remember. She’s cute.”

Ursula frowned. “Don’t tell her that. Her face may be flat, but her head’s inflated with self-aggrandizement. The other woman—I think she’s bringing one I haven’t met. I’m hoping it’s another cat.” Ursula gave an exaggerated blink and smiled.

Roscoe sighed. “That’s it? Okay, good, because—”

“Oh,” said Ursula, “and the man’s bringing Officer Fynn.”

Roscoe’s eyes bulged. “What! Fynn hates me. I gotta go before he gets here.” He searched for a place to hide. Ursula rolled on her side and laughed. “You think this is funny? You’ll see how funny it is when your boyfriend’s head is on your doorstep.” 

Ursula sat up. “You’re not my boyfriend, Roscoe. You leaving dead rats on the stoop doesn’t mean we’re together.”

He fidgeted with his paws. “Fynn’s had it in for me since the Fourth of July.”

“You stole the last hot dog. Fynn was doing his job.”

“I’ve gone straight.” Roscoe stood erect and dusted off his paws.

Ursula cut him a look.

“For real! Closed lids, locks—I don’t mess with them no more. If it’s locked down, it’ll get you locked up.”

“Easy, Roscoe,” she said. “Fynn recently retired from the K-9 unit.”

“Once a cop, always a cop, right?” The raccoon swiveled his head. “Don’t tell him I was here.”

“He may be retired, but that drug nose of his is still on duty.” She couldn’t resist.

The critter scurried away. “Goodbye, my love!”

Roscoe disappeared as Ursula heard a car pull up. Here we go, she thought and sauntered back through the pet door. She catapulted herself on the counter.

“Too many lumps in the potatoes,” Mom said, adding more cream. Ursula meowed and kicked over the saltshaker. “Great. Not a speck of black fur, and you still bring me bad luck.” She threw a pinch of the spilled salt over her shoulder.

There was a knock at the door. Mom left the room, and Ursula listened as Annabelle—Mom’s human daughter—greeted her warmly at the door. A clacking sound below drew Ursula to the edge of the counter. Bella’s shimmery collar clinked against the sides of Ursula’s bowl as her mouth vacuumed for crumbs. Ursula cleared her throat.

Bella jumped. “Hey, Ursula! I didn’t see you.”

“Bella.” She jumped off the counter. “What have you been up to other than sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” She nodded at the bowl.

“That? I was looking for the water.” She fluttered her lashes. “Long drive.”

“Save the cute act for the suckers, sweetie.” Ursula dipped her paw in another bowl and flicked the liquid. “Water’s on the right.”

Bella shook off the droplets. “Thanks.” She sniffed the air. “What’s for lunch?”

“Bird and sides.”

Bella’s face sparkled. “Turkey?”

“Relax,” Ursula shook her head. “It’s not like it’s salmon.”

Bella’s pointed ears wiggled. “We have to steal that turkey. I didn’t spend two hours in a car to eat nuggets on Thanksgiving.”

“Steal the turkey?” Ursula laughed. “How? Distract them with your pretty face while I carry it outside on my back?”

The wrinkles in Bella’s face came together. “That could work.”

Ursula closed her eyes. “I was kidding.”

“We can do this! We need—” The doorbell rang, cutting Bella off, sending her into a frenzy. She spun in a circle and sprinted away.

Ursula took a deep breath. “Lord, give me patience with that one.” She slipped past Mom, Annabelle, and Charlie—Mom’s son and most recent arrival—as she exited the kitchen. Fynn, Charlie’s German Shepard, was complimenting Bella’s collar.

“This old thing?” Bella stretched her neck.

Ursula approached. “Officer Fynn.”

“Ursula,” he nodded cordially. “Just Fynn. I’m retired now.”

“That’s right,” she said, flicking her tail. “How is retirement?”

“Fine. Though, I haven’t been out long enough to overlook the fact that you’ve had a visitor today. Vermin?” Fynn asked.

Ursula smiled. “Roscoe? Technically, he’s a mammal, like us.”

“He’s nothing like me,” Fynn said. “He’s a criminal.”

“This is going well.” Bella rolled over and huffed.

“Speaking of criminals,” Ursula sprang onto a recliner, digging her claws in the fabric, “little Miss Glamour Shots here is planning to steal the Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Ursula!” Bella gave a snort.

“Is this true?” The German Shepherd asked.

Bella batted her brown eyes. “It was girl talk.”

He straightened. “No one’s stealing on my watch.”

“Hasn’t your watch ended?” Ursula stretched and winked.

Fynn’s lip gave an involuntary curl. “The turkey belongs to the humans.”

“Fine. Have it your way,” Bella sprawled across the carpet.

Fynn sat on his haunches and crossed his paws. “Stealing is wrong.”

Bella stood. “It’s Thanksgiving! Don’t you want turkey?”

“Fynn!” Charlie called from the other room.

“That’s my owner,” Fynn said. “I’ll be back.” He trotted from the room.

Ursula scoffed. “Who does he think he is—the German-ator?”

Bella moaned. “You had to open your big mouth. Now what am I gonna eat?”

“I don’t know about you,” said the cat, “but I’m having turkey.”

Bella’s ears perked. “But Fynn—”

“Can kiss my tail! I’m sick of his holier-than-thou attitude. He has some nerve strutting in here, insulting Roscoe. I’ll have you know—”

“The raccoon?” Bella cocked her head. “You like Roscoe!”

Ursula glared. “That’s absurd.”

“You love him!” Bella turned a circle.

“The fumes from your nail polish are going to your head. Roscoe’s a raccoon.”

           Bella looked down at her rose-colored pink nails. “So what? It’s the twenty-ninth century—”

           “Twenty-first,” said Ursula.

           “Whatever.”

           “Will you drop it already? This is about Fynn. Someone needs to take him down a notch. We need a plan.” Her ears pricked. She looked out the window and watched another car pull up.

           “Who is it?” Bella asked.

The window rolled down, and a cloud of smoke escaped. A frizzy-haired woman climbed out and walked to the passenger side. She opened the door, and out jumped a mutt with legs so gangly, Ursula wondered how he’d fit in the car. He marked the yard while the woman unloaded his dog crate from the back.

Ursula frowned and jumped off the couch. “Ugh. It’s a new dog.”

The doorbell rang, bringing Fynn and Charlie into the room and sending Bella into another tizzy.

Charlie opened the door. “Cousin Clementine!” he said. “Glad you could make it. How long has it been?” He sucked in a breath. “Have you been smoking pot?”

“Charlie, don’t be upset. It’s perfectly legal in Oregon.”

“We’re not in Oregon,” he ushered her inside.

The woman smiled. “Here. Put Monty’s crate away for me.” She handed the monstrosity to him and turned. “Come, Monty!”

The mutt barreled through the doorway, knocking over an end table. Ursula sprinted behind the couch and Bella stepped back. The sound of clinking pans drew Monty’s attention. “Monty!” He said his own name and bolted into the kitchen. 

Clementine closed the door. “The ladies in the kitchen?” she asked Charlie but left before he could answer.

Charlie looked at his dog. “Come on, boy. Let’s put this crate away.” They left too.

“What was that?” Bella navigated the mess Monty left behind.

“That,” Ursula said, emerging from hiding, “is how we get our Thanksgiving feast.” She vanished through the cat door, then stuck her head back through the flap. “When Fynn comes back, distract him.”

“How?”

“You want turkey?” asked the cat.

Bella nodded. “More than anything.”

“So, figure it out!” Ursula disappeared.

           Charlie and Fynn came back, sans crate, and headed toward the kitchen when Bella called out. “Officer Fynn.”

           He turned. “Just Fynn,”

           “Okay, Fynn.” She said his name in a way that would have made Marilyn Monroe proud. “Tell me about one of your cases.”

           He trotted over and sat across from her, his back to the kitchen. “I rarely talk about work.” He paused for a moment. “There was one time …”

               He launched into his story when Ursula crept out of the kitchen and behind them. The cat had a bag in her mouth. Fynn stopped talking, and she froze.

Bella placed her paw on Fynn’s and smiled. “Keep going.”

Ursula scampered away. His nose twitched. “Do you smell that? I know that smell.” He followed Ursula’s trail.

“Wait! Your story—”

“Later,” he said, leaving the room.

Bella debated whether to follow. A few moments passed in silence, then a bark and hiss echoed from the bedroom. Clank, clank, clank! There was a furious noise accompanied by howling.

Ursula darted through the living room. “Bella. Kitchen. Now!”

They slid past Mom’s legs, under the table as the woman set down the turkey.

“What’s that noise?” Mom asked.

“That’s Fynn,” Charlie said, leaving the kitchen. The other humans followed.

“What happened?” Bella asked.

Ursula’s eyes gleamed. “Remember that stuff Clementine was smoking in the car?”

Bella nodded.

“I put it in the crate knowing he would find it!”

Bella’s mouth dropped. “You didn’t!”

“As soon as he was in, I slammed the door shut and locked it.”

“Poor Fynn!” Bella’s wrinkled face drooped.

“What?” Ursula asked. “You should be thanking me!”

“Well,” Bella said, “it is turkey.”

Ursula nodded. “Let’s finish the job.” She looked around. “Monty. Here, boy!”

Monty, who’d busied himself with a chew toy, looked up. “Monty?” he said, getting up and walking over.

“Good boy,” Ursula said.

Monty sat. “Monty,” he repeated.

“Lord, you’re a few nuggets short of a full bowl, aren’t you?” She placed her paw over his.

He cocked his head. “Monty,” he answered.

“Listen,” said Ursula. “You see that turkey?” She lifted her gaze.

The dog’s tongue slid from the side of his mouth. “Monty.”

Bella side-eyed Ursula. “I don’t think he understands.”

Ursula heard the crate open. Her stomach filled with panic. “Monty, we need you to get the turkey off the table.”

“Monty,” he said, drooling.

“I know you can do it.” The humans’ voices were close. “Get the turkey!”

With one giant paw, Monty knocked the bird onto the floor as everyone, including Fynn, came into the kitchen.

“Monty, what happened?” Clementine stood next to the turkey. “You’ve ruined it! Bad dog.” She led him outside.

“What’s gotten into these dogs?” Annabelle asked.

Ursula came out from under the table, and Fynn growled.

“Quiet, Fynn.” Charlie nudged the dog.

Ursula sashayed around him. “Yes, Fynn. Quiet.”

Annabelle picked up the turkey. “I’m sorry, Mom. Think it’s salvageable?”

Mom shook her head. “I haven’t mopped the floor in ages. Throw it in the dumpster out back.”

Annabelle carried the turkey away.

Charlie looked at the pets. “Everyone with a fur coat—outside.”

They stared back.

“Now!” he said.

They filed out in a single line.

Annabelle tossed the turkey in the garbage and secured the lid. “Stay out of the garbage,” she told them and walked back inside.

Fynn glared at Bella and Ursula. “You two—”

“Relax, officer,” Ursula said. “Nobody got hurt.”

He looked at Bella. “You were in on this?”

Bella hung her head. “I—It was for turkey!”

“Forget it,” he said and walked around the house.

Ursula stood next to Bella. “He’ll get over it. On the bright side—lunch!”

Bella’s scrunched her face. “It’s in the garbage.”

Ursula tuned to the bushes. “Roscoe!”

There was a rustling. A nose poked through an opening. “My love?”

“Roscoe, my love, could you open the garbage lid?”

“I don’t know, man,” he said, looking at the trashcan. “I told you I don’t mess with that no more. I wanna clean up my act, live right and—”

“Please.” Ursula blew him a kiss.

Roscoe hesitated. “What about Fynn?”

“He’s around back.” Bella said.

 “Fine,” he said, crawling from the bushes, “but if he kills me, I want you both to feel bad about it.” He waddled over to the trash. “I mean it. I want tears—the works. I want the world to know that Roscoe the Raccoon died for love—”

“Roscoe,” Ursula said. “Before the canine cop comes back.”

“Right.” He focused. A moment later the lid was off, and he was tossing out bits of meat. Monty, who’d been by the garden shed, caught a whiff and came over.

Roscoe ducked. “Who’s that?”

“Don’t worry,” Ursula said. “That’s Monty. He’s harmless.”

Roscoe peered over the trashcan. “He don’t look harmless.”

Monty pranced over to Roscoe and sat. “Monty,” he said.

“Yeah, okay man, whatever. Just don’t eat me.” Roscoe threw some turkey, which Monty snatched from the air.

As Ursula and Monty feasted, Bella carried a turkey leg around the side of the house. Fynn was sitting with his back to her. His ears pointed out when she approached. She set down the meat.

“You want some?” she asked.

“Stolen food?” He looked away. “No, thanks.”

 “It’s not technically stolen. It’s … left-overs.”

“Nice try.” His jaw was tense.

“Fynn. I’m sorry. I wanted an enjoyable Thanksgiving dinner—”

“It’s not that, Bella. I never want you to be behind bars—to have to go through what I went through being locked up.” He closed his eyes.

“Locked up? The crate? That was only for a—”

“It changes you, Bella. Isolation. Loneliness. You don’t come out the same.”

“Fynn, I’m—”

“I don’t want you to change. I like the way you are.”

“Oh,” she said. “I like you too.”

His face brightened. “You do?”

She nodded.

“You’re not saying that to—”

“Commit another crime?” She smiled. “No, I’m retired.”

Fynn chuckled. “Me too.”

Bella nudged the turkey. “Might as well enjoy yourself. Like I said, it’s not stolen, it’s—”

“Left-overs,” he said. “I remember.” He leaned down and sniffed the turkey. “It does smell good.” He took a bite. “It’s delicious,” he said, swallowing. “I can see the appeal of crime.”

“Christmas is around the corner,” Bella said. “I hear they’re getting ham.”

He stopped chewing and stared.

“I’m kidding! Unless you’re up for it.”

“Don’t make me arrest you.”

Bella shrugged. “For what? Conspiracy to steal ham?”

“No,” he said, chewing off a piece of turkey and laying it in front of her. “For stealing my heart.”