Behind that adorable black face, behind those sweet mournful eyes lies the soul of an unapologetic shit-eater.

For real.

That is not a metaphor. She’s gone from stealing fruitcake and puking it under the tree last Christmas to full-blown coprophagia, gobbling it right up from between dead leaves on the ground at night. Cold and hard or piping hot and still steaming, she doesn’t care and she does it quick, too, too quick to catch sometimes. She just can’t help herself.

Layla’s my sister Jess’s dog, half-beagle and half lab with incurable separation anxiety. She was taken from her mother too young, and consequently has massive incurable anxiety. Jess has tried training camps, reading dog books, everything. Nothing works. Every time Jess is gone for a little while, Layla overindulges in something she shouldn’t: fruitcake, shoes, a purse, now fecal matter.

All training methods exhausted, my sister now just spoils the dog completely rotten, talking to her in a high, squealing voice, carrying her in her arms like a large infant and allowing the dog to “kiss” her directly on the lips.

A few weeks ago, Layla vomited a five-inch turd onto my parents’ living room carpet. My mom called Jess up immediately to report the news, saying only

“Your dog has vomited a massive turd onto the carpet. Yes, a turd. Go ahead and let her lick your lips again. As a concerned mother, I hope you’ve got good health insurance,”

and hung up.

Such was the climate of the household this Thanksgiving. Everyone was exhausted and frustrated with this new habit, this repugnant fetish for a newly repulsive creature that’s far too cute to kick.

Jess and I spent Thanksgiving day over at my aunt and uncle’s taking care of my grandparents. They moved in sometime last summer for a few weeks while my grandpa recuperated from an operation, and it’s become clear that they’re in no shape to live independently. My grandpa’s 88 years old with congestive heart failure, kidney failure and diabetes. He needs a walker to get around now and can’t lift his legs by himself.

My grandma’s his primary caregiver. My grandma ran the house, raised two kids, did all the cooking and cleaning and shopping, taught Sunday school, ran the house’s finances, sprinted and taught handsprings and did it all with a smile ever since he got back from World War II.

My grandpas’ role in the war was this: he ran out into the fields of India and China and scavenged usable parts, threw them into a truck and welded them back into American planes. He also welded shut gigantic sardine cans that doubled as airproof containers for his friends and colleagues’ remains. Right after the war, he got a job as a welder for NASA. He welded on everything from the first moon lander to the first space shuttle and a lot more. Daro and Pop-Pop raised their kids, sent them both to college, fought segregation and helped raise me and my sister. They taught us to be polite, to cook, to love nature and to see the world as a source of constant blessing.

As a reward for their constant, unwavering faith and great service to humankind, the benevolent Creator of the Universe is taking my grandpa’s health and dignity slowly, one chunk at a time. His beloved wife and family are allowed to watch.

Pop-Pop generates a lot more laundry than he used to, and Daro can’t see or reach to work the washing machine. He falls a lot more now than he did three months ago, too. Daro tries to catch him whenever she can, and half the time she goes down with him. Neither of them can focus or hear like they used to, which makes conversation difficult, I imagine.

Contemporary Judeo-Christian philosophy tells us that if we work hard, love harder, and go to church every Sunday like Daro and Pop-Pop did, this is what we can anticipate: bland food, constant pain, and a gradual system failure while our partners’ hearts break. Euthanasia is morally and ethically wrong, according to popular belief.

Bullshit, I say. Please kill me.

When all my food is poison and my pants are never dry, I want the woman that loves me the most to help me through a last meal of fried chicken, collards and biscuits with a double Makers’ on the rocks, then hold me tight and look me deep in the eyes while we slip the needle into my arm together.

For real.

Jessica was an absolute whirlwind on Thanksgiving Day. We got the sheets stripped, laundry done, floors vacuumed, house aired out and food underway by the early afternoon before anyone else came over. If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t know what I’d have done. It hit me that afternoon: we are grownups, Jess and I. There are no more tests to take, no more back seats to fight in. We’re here, grown now, and helping each other deal with it when we can.

After all the cleaning, we had a little time to relax and visit as a family, same as always. Our parents came over, aunt and uncle came home and we made jokes and told stories, same as it ever was. Dinner was awesome, an unholy triple threat of carbs, protein and fats, all of which where various delicious shades of beige.

Back home at my parents’ house, we sat around the living room with wine and pecan pie. Later in the evening, Layla managed to climb on top of the dining room table and eat at least two thirds of a pumpkin pie. We punished her, but we were all actually pretty relieved. At least it was food, pre-digested.

That’s actually a pretty good metaphor for the Simmermon family this Thanksgiving: there’s some bad, bad stuff going on and it’s really tough to deal with. But compared to what could be happening, it’s not that bad at all — and we’re helping each other deal with it the best we can.