“Menorah! Menorah!”

My dad’s gruff voice stumbles through an off-key melody of hospital names. My older cousin, Mallori, squeals and runs to a far off corner, covering her eyes with her hands. My mom and my aunt debate over which hospital to send my father. They struggle to hear each other over my father’s singing, my cousin’s squealing, my brother’s laughing and my dog’s howling.

I peer over my mom’s shoulder to see my dad, laying on his back, with dark red blood streaming down his cheek. He held a blood-stained ice pack over his left eye. A deep gash was visible on his left eye lid. He laughed as he jumped off of our leather couch. It wasn’t his usual laugh.

Something was different about him. The empty liquor bottle was a dead give away. I laughed and I realized my dad was intoxicated and couldn’t feel any pain. This was a practical joke gone wrong. My dad had picked up my 75 pound beagle in attempts to throw him on my sleeping brother. In a nervous struggle, my dog bit my dad. My dog was never violent, so after his realization of what he had done, he scampered away from the area. This was the beginning of thanksgiving traditions for the Quinn family. My dad was then the inspiration for many crazy celebrations to come. I love my family. No matter how many hospital trips we have to take together.