I’m the 47-Pound Raccoon That Goes Through Your Trash Every Thanksgiving, and I’ve Decided to Stay Home This Year

Dear Aunt Marissa,

I want you to know that this was not a decision I came to lightly. It was only after a long discussion with my 53-pound raccoon wife and our seven 25-pound raccoon children that we have decided to decline your kind offer to spend Thanksgiving with you and yours. You may not remember extending an invitation, but the untouched casserole Larry threw out the window when you weren’t looking did all the talking.

We want you to know that this in no way changes how we feel about you. We intend to spend many a coming Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, and just general Monday through Friday nights with you. We feel truly blessed to have you in our lives, whether you know you are in our lives or not. This Thanksgiving, just like every other, I give thanks for your company, that your husband and your children absolutely despise your cooking, and that you have the flimsiest, shittiest trash can lids in all of New Jersey.

That being said, we are very disappointed in you.

We really thought you would be taking this virus seriously after losing Vinny to rabies from a raccoon bite that definitely did not involve either of my seven 25-pound children. Maybe the raccoon that bit him also had Covid-19, you never know. But after hearing your conversation with Sheryl while I was shredding a chicken carcass in your recycling bin, I have to say I am quite upset. You’ve invited all the grandparents, aunts and uncles, in-laws, cousins, the cousins’ cousins, and even the Abramovich’s from up the street. Mrs. Abramovich never throws out any large quantities of noodle kugel, and their trash can lids are bolted down. I don’t trust that they are taking this pandemic seriously for one second.

And Sheryl is bringing the new guy she’s seeing? She’s known him for what, 72 hours? When is someone going to pull that poor woman aside and tell her that these men are just in it for the bean dip and flat-screen TV? C’mon Sheryl.

I expected more from you. And also more bundt cake? I haven’t seen that in the trash for a while. At the end of the day, this is about the safety of my family. Obviously, I’d much rather spend the day listening to you and Larry argue over which is the “good silverware” while scarfing down the first botched turkey of the day that is both so raw and so overcooked I almost break a tooth. But this is 2020, and we can’t have nice things, now can we Marissa?

Instead, we will be spending Thanksgiving in our hole in the ground. Instead of feasting on the nice warm pumpkin cheese pie that Rebecca always brings but nobody likes, we will have to make do with a frozen Thanksgiving casserole surprise you made four years ago. Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself?

We don’t have cable in our hole in the ground. Do you know how hard it is to keep track of how many interceptions the Cowboys throw from a hole?

But the reality is, we just can’t take the risk this year. As much as I would love to send my in-laws to dumpster heaven early, the 53-pound wife would leave me for the 97-pound opossum that’s living in your garage.

If it seems like you’ve straightened out your priorities, we might drop by for some latkes and applesauce on the sixth night of Hanukkah. But until then, you’re going to have a very full trash-can and a very empty heart.

Best wishes,