STONED COLD TURKEY

The turkey was still thawing on the counter when the family’s smallest member staged a scandal. Ibisa, a six-pound tuft of white arrogance, waddled into the living room with the languid serenity of a monk.
We assumed she was performing her usual repertoire: the exaggerated sighs, the pointed stares at unattended plates, the occasional meark (a bark pitched suspiciously close to a meow) delivered with the solemnity of a royal decree. But then her eyes—normally sharp, beady little marbles of judgment—softened into half-moons, as if she had just solved the mystery of inner peace. She sat, swayed slightly, and then melted onto the rug like a Victorian fainting lady.
She crossed her paws, swayed, and toppled over, as though fainting were part of her afternoon routine. A ‘jeepers’ slipped from my grandmother. Uncle Ron, who putts like a man born holding a nine iron, squinted as if reading the wind on a green. My mother began whispering prayers in Portuguese.
Only later would I realize this was the opening act of what became our family’s great Thanksgiving mystery. Exhibit one: the collapse. Exhibit two: the crossed paws. Exhibit three: the vacant smile of a creature who knew something we didn’t. My aunt swore it was dehydration, my cousin pointed to heatstroke, and my mother leapt straight to imminent death. No two witnesses agreed, but each testified with the fervor of a seasoned expert. Meanwhile, the accused lay sprawled on the rug, blissfully uninterested in her trial.
By the time someone suggested Googling “dog fainting symptoms,” the house had transformed into a medical drama. The turkey sat neglected, pale and goose-bumpy on the counter, while a semicircle of relatives debated Ibisa’s diagnosis. It was absurd and alarming all at once, the kind of moment that suspends a family between laughter and dread. Nobody quite knew whether to call a vet, a priest, or the neighbors.

What we did know, though, was that this Thanksgiving would not be remembered for the food.

The debate ended when my mother scooped Ibisa into her arms and announced, “We’re going to the vet.” No one argued. She marched out the door like a general evacuating the wounded, while I followed with the kind of reluctant amusement usually reserved for bad sitcoms. The dog, limp but serene, dangled in her arms like a saint being carried to her tomb.

The vet’s office smelled faintly of antiseptic and anxiety. We were ushered into an exam room, where Ibisa was placed reverently on a metal table that seemed far too cold for her saintly repose. My mother explained the symptoms with the urgency of someone describing a patient in critical condition. The vet, a woman with the calm detachment of someone who had seen stranger things, listened patiently before delivering the verdict: marijuana intoxication.

For a moment, silence. My mother blinked, uncomprehending, as if the words required translation into Portuguese before they could register. I, meanwhile, collapsed into laughter, nearly sliding off the plastic chair. The vet assured us Ibisa would be fine, that she only needed rest and hydration. My mother exhaled dramatically, murmuring graças a Deus.
Ibisa, sprawled on the exam table, blinked at us with the glazed expression of someone who had no idea they had become the most scandalous figure of the holiday.
During the car ride back, the gravity of the situation seemed to expand. My mother gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened, muttering prayers under her breath. I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep a straight face. Every time I looked at my mom's lap and saw Ibisa slumped, the giggles rose up again. I finally gave in, wheezing out, “Snoop Dog,” which only made me laugh harder. My mother did not join me.

Back home, the diagnosis didn’t bring closure but rather opened another courtroom drama. Where had Ibisa found it? Who had left such contraband within reach of a six-pound Maltese? The kitchen was scoured, the living room searched, the backyard eyed with new suspicion. Every corner of the house suddenly seemed like a crime scene waiting to be dusted for paw prints.
Speculation flew, but not a shred of real evidence surfaced. Maybe it had blown in from outside, maybe a neighbor had been careless, maybe it was one of those things dogs conjure up from thin air just to test their owners’ nerves. What was clear was that none of us—least of all a fifteen-year-old me—had any plausible connection. Still, theories circulated like gossip at a small-town diner.
The beauty of it, of course, is that the truth never surfaced. Each Thanksgiving since, the story is resurrected around the table with the same theatrical pacing: the collapse, the crossed paws, the limp procession to the vet. The turkey plays a supporting role, but Ibisa remains the undisputed headliner. Every year, new theories emerge, blame shifts conveniently to whoever isn’t present, and the legend grows.

If most families measure their holidays in servings of turkey or slices of pie, ours is marked by the retelling of Ibisa’s great scandal. It became less about what actually happened and more about the performance of remembering it together—the accusations, the laughter, the collective gasp that somehow never loses its charge. The mystery remains unsolved, but in the end, that’s what gives it power.
In the years since, Ibisa’s collapse has become less a story about a dog and more a story about us. The facts are blurry, embellished differently depending on who tells it—uncle Ron swears she foamed at the mouth, my grandmother insists she crossed herself. Each version is a reflection of the teller, a way of slipping themselves into the story. What survives isn’t accuracy, but the web of relationships held together by the act of retelling.
Every November, before the pie is sliced and after the turkey has cooled, the story reenters circulation, equal parts comedy, tragedy, and whodunit. It binds us in the retelling: the gasp, the laughter, the inevitable finger-pointing, all stitched into the fabric of our holiday as surely as cranberry sauce and stuffing.
Some families pass down recipes; we pass down mysteries. Ours just happens to involve a six-pound Maltese who, for one unforgettable Thanksgiving, upstaged the turkey.