On Nov. 23, 2002, my hamster, Gunther Wheeler, died of asphyxiation. It was Thanksgiving Day. I had come upstairs in an attempt to hide from my mother who was furiously cleaning our house before the arrival of the extended family, and I hoped I could evade her long list of chores, none of which appealed to my 10-year-old self. When asked whether I wanted to polish the door handles, I muttered a quick “No, thank you” and shuffled up to my room before she noticed. But there he lay, my precious Gunther, his black eyeballs bulging out of the sockets, and his buck teeth still clinging to that fatal fiber of carrot that brought about his end. I got down to eye level with my pet, close enough that only a thin layer of Plexiglas separated us, and stared deep into his eyes. I could see the reflection of my own nose pressed against the cage. If only I had come sooner. He was on his back, and his tiny hands were raised above his body as if he died in the middle of a plea for help. I ran back downstairs.

“Mom, Gunther’s dead,” I gulped, unable to control my dramatic gasps for breath.

“Who?” she asked, not raising her eyes from the mountain of silverware before her.

“Mommmmmmm!” I exclaimed, stomping back to my room, determined to give the tiny creature a fair and proper burial. He was too young to die, I thought, already crafting what I knew would be a touching eulogy.

The guests arrived, and I was forced to leave my furry friend on my desk in the ornate shoebox casket on I created for him. I greeted my aunts and uncles with forced grins, as I hugged and kissed my way around the family room. My mom, however, was given only scowls. I resolved never to forgive her for this display of outright negligence.

I sat on the ground next to the coffee table and watched my family. Booming voices echoed through the room as my family exchanged stories, or embellishments, of past reunions. Everyone was crammed into my living room. It was hectic and loud and not at all what I wanted. I had eaten at my friend, Maureen’s house the night before, and I thought her family was perfect. An only child, she and her parents ate dinner at the same time every night. They took turns speaking and only used inside voices, sometimes no one saying anything at all. Maureen didn’t have a hamster, but her mother would never forget her fish’s name, let alone the fact that she had a fish. In my living room, we should have been sitting and talking like a normal family, but it seemed like everyone was just trying to yell over everyone else.

My dad, in a drunken attempt to help an aunt with a platter of hors d’oeuvres, spilled a glass of merlot over the newly upholstered couch. My cousin, also drunk, impersonated my dad and goofily thrust his arm outwards. He struck a lamp on a side table and it fell to floor where it shattered. The room burst into laughter. Both men were bent over, literally in hysterics at the stupidity of their actions. I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Something like that would never happen at Maureen’s house.

We finally ate dinner, an hour and a half behind schedule. Family members were scattered throughout three rooms, our dining room table being too small to accommodate so many people. My mom was the last to sit down. She took the seat next to me.

“I’m sorry about your hamster, honey,” she whispered into my temple, as she gave me a kiss. My eyes widened with the horrific realization of what she was talking about. I had totally forgotten about little Gunther Wheeler.

Over dinner, stories of the night were already being retold and exaggerated. My dad claimed the shattered lamp was a family heirloom, and my cousin swore he was pushed. The subject changed and people argued about sports, and politics, and global warming. Rarely was the discussion intelligent or focused. I couldn’t really follow any of the conversations, but I spent the night listening to the rumble.

The next day, my mom, dad, brother and sister helped me with Gunther’s funeral service. We buried his body behind the tree house, where it was exhumed only hours later by a hungry fox. I invited Maureen over that day, and she told me about her Thanksgiving with her parents. Apparently, it was very pleasant. I’m sure the rest of her Thanksgivings were, as well. I wouldn’t know; we drifted apart that year. I still think of her family as the embodiment of what is normal. Her house was big and clean, and her parents were nice and not the least bit embarrassing. When they spoke, it was in quiet voices. Instead, my family is obnoxious, rude and loud. We eat dinner in the opposite of silence.

I have plenty to be thankful for.