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Last Thanksgiving Bummer tore into Mandy, the older refugees golden, in a territorial fashion, and my mother had to find a vet willing to stitch her up after his turkey refugees dinner. We sent along some pie for him--the vet. So I realize upon entering the kitchen and finding my mother's goldens curled up on their travel beds, that this year Bummer gets to spend the holiday outside at his own house. I waste no time admitting to our lack of chocolate refugees pie. "That's okay," Peggy, my oldest sister who has come from New Hampshire, consoles me. "I decided to make a few pecans, and Jean made a Swedish apple last night. Plus your two pumpkin is five pies. We don't need more than five pies." I'm relieved. Temporarily. Being the last person to arrive is tricky business. Apparently not for my husband, who has somehow managed a cold beer in hand and a prime piece of real estate on the couch inside of five minutes.
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