185 Eat A Turkey Day

That tofurkey that you are cooking, to save the savagery of animal murder, go ahead and eat a real turkey. You will be ridding the world of avian villainy.

When we lived in Granite Falls, we had a neighbor who decided to use his cleared five acres to raise farm animals.  This was an interesting choice.  He had a large herd of amusing goats.  But, they were goats.  (Oh dear, I haven’t posted a goat on facebook, for no reason, in far too long.  I must remember to follow up and send that out.)  

The goats ran around free far more often than they stayed behind the fence.  Goats are experts at creating their own realities.  They must also manifest going back to the Eternal at rapid rates. The cougars loved a good goat dinner.  Farmland and forest land do not mix.

Apparently, all of the farm animals were free to come and go from the actual house.  The people who bought that house were forced to gut it.  There is a line, people who love too much, love the animals far too much.

One of these animals was an enormous male turkey.  We learned very quickly that turkeys either hate or adore Girl Scouts, hard to identify which.  The troop played games and sang songs outdoors.  The turkey would come, thrumming and charging the young girls.  Perhaps he loved thin mints, and was irritated when so many Scouts had not one box to offer.  He would run at us, and I would yell at and chase him.  He was far larger than any of the girls.  In retrospect, it might have been amusing to the watching eye.   

On peaceful days, the turkey sat around our house, not within it.  He was in love with our hose.  He often made advances toward his green girlfriend.  She didn’t seem to mind. It might have been welcome and encouraged.  I didn’t have many conversations with her to see if she needed representation.  She was usually quiet.  I also realize that I didn’t know about checking for pronouns at the time.  So, hmm, I may be misrepresenting an innocent hose.

What compelled the turkey to bring his new love interest to our house?  Cold and heartless scoundrel.  Flaunting his new strumpet mere feet from the discarded lover in green.  The new girl was a peahen, strutting some more attractive stuff, warm blood and feathers.  She sat on the railing of our deck.  I didn’t catch her name.  I didn’t really want either of them on our property, but they didn’t ask permission, and didn’t care about our opinions.

What is my point?  That tofurkey that you are cooking, to save the savagery of animal murder, go ahead and eat a real turkey.  You will be ridding the world of avian villainy. 

I know that you are desperate to hear that the turkey lived and was forever protected.  Your compassion is misguided.  The turkey was so stupid that it thrummed and rushed the back end of the neighbor’s truck while it was in motion.  It could have been suicide.  But it was actually arrogance and insolence and idiocy.  He lived that life, and died that death.

The neighbor’s wife was distraught.  The neighbor, himself, was banned to the barn for hitting it purposely.  He did not.  And the most ironic twist, no one ate that turkey.  Someone had to bury it! 

Author: Michele Plumb Stowell

Michele Stowell was a teacher, a hand holder, and encouraging voice. Born an early Gen Xer, she has lived in Western Washington for the duration. Her children, two spectacular genetic daughters and an uncountable number of marvelous scout and school sons and daughters, shine as her biggest impact and her greatest blessing. Just before her 54th birthday, Michele was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Her writing and art work are expressions of the drama and the joy of living earth bound. On October 24, 2021, Michele was released from her physical body, transported to continue her work on other realms.

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