So, Thanksgiving is almost here,
and along with mouth-watering thoughts of warm apple pies, fresh rolls, and that weird jello that looks like a green blob of slime but is actually delicious, my mind turns to…turkey.
I used to be so happy for that one turkey that the president pardons each year.
Not anymore. Now I wish just once he’d say,
“This year I’d like to do things differently. Hey, psst- Secret Service Man? You don’t happen to have a hatchet handy?“
Don’t judge me, you don’t know why I hate those gobbley-guys yet!
I was working at my neighbor’s barn. Along with horses, she had some pigs, goats, chickens, peacocks, sheep, ducks, and…Jake.
Jake was a big white tom turkey with a cold, cold heart.
She told me to just shoo him away. But that stopped working, so there were squirt guns to be employed as Jake repellents. They also failed, so we finally resorted to swinging water buckets at the lunatic-bird.
One night I decided to head over to groom the new pony we’d gotten for the kids.(see “When is it Time to Sell the “Bad Horse” for that delightful tale)
When I walked into the barn I was swinging that turkey bucket like it was a scythe on hay day.
But that night, Jake had a trick up his sleeve…er…creepy bird leg. He waited for the highest point of my swing then launched himself to the top of the bucket as it was coming down!
The result was that I was eye, to beady little assassin-turkey eye with him.
Of course, I did what any tough, bale tossing, bucket carrying, 1,200 lb animal bossing, tractor driving gal would do…
I screamed bloody murder and chucked that pal- turkey and all- and dashed down the hallway into the pony’s stall.
Let me tell you, it was sort of embarrassing to put in a rescue call to my husband while peeping at that darn bird who was standing just outside the stall. But I never wanted to look into the eyes of a black-hearted-poultry-ninja again, no thank you.
Well, my guy is awesome, and he did come save me from Jake that night. (apparently, he wasn’t “bird enough” to take on two swinging, anti-turkey-buckets)
On the way home I told my husband how I just couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving…
and could I maybe help carve up the bird this year?
And that is the story of why this girl hates turkeys.
(There are probably some perfectly nice birds out there…but alas,
I’m pretty sure I’ve got PTSD…Punk Turkey Stress Disorder-
and my aversion will remain for life)