By Billy Golden
Floof-at-Large
Listen. I need to clear the air about something, and I want to get ahead of the rumors. Yes — I pulled off the greatest food heist in family history two days before Thanksgiving. And no — there is still no evidence. Not a crumb. Not a smear. Not even a dent in the tin.
Here’s what happened.
Mum ordered her usual Thanksgiving pies from the Wetmore Community Club ladies. This year’s lineup was elite: two pecan pies from Susie Passinault, a perfect apple from Pat Cornish and pumpkin pies courtesy of Kay Vertz — a real murderers’ row of baked goods. When my cousin Kayla went to pick them up, she also grabbed some bonus goodies: two bags of cookies and my parents’ favorite banana bread.
Kayla dropped everything off and ran back to town. Mum was heading out, thinking Kaya was right behind her on her way back. Spoiler: She was not. In the span of exactly one golden-sized window of opportunity, I got myself onto the kitchen counter — quiet as a fox, smooth as a cat burglar — and liberated that banana bread.
Cleanly. Perfectly. Surgically.
I even removed the lid like a human. No teeth marks. No scratches. No torn foil. If there had been a security camera in that kitchen, the footage would be studied in heist films for decades.
They’re still arguing about whether there were one or two bags of cookies. And honestly? I like the mystery. Legends don’t explain themselves. Just ask Beacon film critics Brad Gischia and Todd Sheridan Perry.
Anyway, after my historic and heroic pre-holiday performance, I assumed I would be rewarded on Thanksgiving Day with full access to desserts … or at least a little leniency. But no. Everyone was on alert.
My brother refused to take me to hang with the other Goldens. The adults practically formed a defensive perimeter around the pies. And every time I tried to do a casual little “nose sweep” across the dessert table — just to check quality control — someone would snap their fingers and go, “Billy. Don’t even think about it.”
Don’t even think about it? Thinking is literally my hobby.
So Thanksgiving was … fine, I guess. But not the party-down, dessert-sampling, crumb-scavenging event I had envisioned. I had plans. They had countermeasures.
And now the whole house is basically on lockdown.
You’d think that after eight and a half years they would relax, but no. They’re Billy-proofing everything. Mum even bought a new trash can for her office because she’s “tired of playing catch the Golden with her rolling chair.” If we’re keeping score, it’s Billy: one million. Mum: two. And I’m being generous.
She bought this fancy can you have to wave your hand over because, apparently, I “know how to work pedals.” Well … yeah. Obviously.
But here’s the kicker: I watched Kayla assemble the whole thing. They were both so proud of themselves, sitting there grinning like they’d solved world hunger. Mum even said, “He’ll never figure this one out.”
So I did that exaggerated Golden tiptoe over, eased my head up and hit the lid with a perfect little nose-swipe — my signature move — and the lid popped right open.
Mum froze. Kayla blinked. “Did … did that just happen?”
Sure did.
They closed it. I opened it again.
Kayla — always the little engineer of the family — was already pitching Mom some wild plan about building a custom, Billy-proof contraption. And of course my dad, who is absolutely no fun and has the patience of, well, his grumpy dad (hello, Grumpy Grandpa), shut that down faster than you can say “banana bread.” So we ended up with this fancy garbage can instead.
Which is hilarious, because you can’t outsmart a floof who has nothing but time and a single-minded drive to access snacks. A Golden is gonna Golden. That’s just nature.
Anyway, Mum keeps saying she hopes I “settle down” with age. Settle down? Me?
Absolutely not.
I am Billy.
I am chaos.
And dessert was never safe — even when the tin looked untouched.
Until next week, stay vigilant. You never know when a Golden is planning his next move.