11-pound wiener dog vs. 14-pound turkey

I always thought Thanksgiving was supposed to be cozy, heartwarming, and vaguely magical. I did not realize it involved a 14.5-pound turkey that outweighs my Wiener dog, Winnie, and roughly the same amount of panic I feel every time I try to cook anything larger than a frozen pizza.

This week, I officially embarked on my first at-home Thanksgiving in my very own tiny house. Just me, the turkey, and enough sides to feed a small army — or at least seven or eight humans who may or may not comfortably fit in my living room. 

It’s cottage-core chaos, complete with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, veggies, and enough desserts to make a bakery jealous — all while keeping in mind the very real dietary needs of Winnie and her cousin Kairi. Yes, the dogs get their own Thanksgiving feast. It’s a hard life, but someone has to champion the canine culinary experience.

Shopping for this event was an epic quest. I wandered Care and Share trying to make thrifted table settings match stuffed pumpkins, discovering quickly that I am not, in fact, Martha Stewart.

Then came Grocery Outlet, where I stood holding my turkey like Kevin McCallister in Home Alone, asking strangers for advice on cooking it. A kind soul rescued me from what could have been a literal turkey massacre with expert tips on roasting this beast — thankfully proving that holiday miracles still exist under fluorescent grocery lighting.

The moment I brought the turkey home, the real horror began. I set it down to move some things from my freezer — and immediately, Winnie went full shark attack. 

There I was, watching this miniature 11-pound Wiener dog drag the frozen turkey across the floor and try to rip apart the netting, clearly intent on killing the already-dead and very frozen bird. I’m not sure who was more terrified: me, the turkey, or the furniture in the path of Winnie’s murderous rampage.

Now comes the real challenge: how do I survive Thanksgiving on my new diet from Barb at the gym? Do I run three, five, or twelve miles beforehand to justify the calories? Or do I strategically hoard all my calories for post-Black Friday survival, when shopping for things I absolutely do not need will require Olympic-level stamina? Decisions, decisions, people.

And then there’s the turkey itself. I know how to roast a chicken, but this turkey? It’s a behemoth. It’s heavier than Winnie, somehow more intimidating than my small house can accommodate, and I’m fairly certain it’s judging my life choices as I panic over recipes and Google “how to not ruin Thanksgiving.”

So, in the coming days, I’ll be elbow-deep in gravy, mediating peace treaties between stuffing and mashed potatoes, debating whether pumpkin pie counts as a personality trait, and making tiny plates of turkey for dogs who will absolutely judge me for not giving them the entire bird. But at the end of it all, there will be laughter, chaos, and a dinner table that somehow survived my rookie hosting skills. And if nothing else, Winnie will know she had a Thanksgiving worthy of Instagram.

Here’s hoping my turkey doesn’t exact revenge first.