Grandpa Streeter

Thanksgiving at our house was always a little chaotic, a little loud, and completely unforgettable—especially the year Grandpa Streeter decided to become a dog.

The kitchen was a whirlwind that morning. My mom was in full Thanksgiving survival mode, darting from the stove to the counter to the oven. Pies were cooling, gravy was simmering, and the smell of turkey floated through the house like a warm hug.

Grandpa Streeter, always the mischief-maker, had dropped to all fours and started crawling around like a dog. He was barking and play-growling, much to the delight of little Cloe, my toddler niece, who was squealing with laughter as he chased her around the kitchen.

My mom, flustered and juggling a hot tray of candied yams fresh from the oven, didn’t know that Grandpa “Dog” had followed Cloe right behind her heels. She took a step back—right onto Grandpa’s hand. The next thing we knew, there was a crash, a shout, and both of them hit the floor.

By some miracle, the yams flew through the air and landed safely on the counter. It was like Thanksgiving magic.

Mom groaned, pushing herself up, trying to brush sweet potatoes off her apron. “Dad! What on earth—” she started, but before she could finish, Cloe waddled over, looked Grandpa in the eye… and slapped him right across the face.

We all froze.

The room went dead silent.

Then we saw Grandpa’s stunned expression, wide-eyed and red-cheeked. Everyone burst out laughing.

Grandpa Streeter just rubbed his face and chuckled. “Guess I was a bad dog.”

That Thanksgiving, we didn’t just get stuffed on turkey and pie—we got a story that still makes us laugh every time we tell it. And from that day on, we made sure to keep one eye on the oven—and one on Grandpa.