The Man and His Turkey | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: The Man and His Turkey | Previous Challenge Entry
By Hannah Gaudette
02/11/16
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The Man and His Turkey

I was a farmer. I'd grown up on a farm, married a farmer, raised three farm kids and a whole platoon of mismatched livestock. So how was it that I stood dumbstruck two days before Thanksgiving, staring into the chocolaty eyes of that feathered beast while she stared back at me with the most innocent, loving expression in the world? I was sunk.

We'd acquired Scrumptious when she was only a couple days old from a fellow farmer up the road. It had been part of a swap – future Thanksgiving turkey in exchange for two bushels of potatoes from the root cellar. It worked out perfect. The kids, my wife Gabi, and I knew better than to name the small, lonely bird who seemed to think she was a puppy. But somehow it didn't stay that way for long.

“Daddy?” our youngest child said to me one morning. “Isabelle misses her flock.”

I frowned. “Who?” When had we added an animal to our herds named Isabelle?

“The turkey,” Josh explained as though it should have been obvious.

My frown deepened. “Josh, we aren't naming that turkey. She's Thanksgiving dinner; you all know that.”

“But she needs a name,” Chloe countered. “Or else she'll feel even more sad.”

After several more futile attempts to sway my three overly bird-crazy kids, I offered the alternative name of Scrumptious. They relented.

And so, Scrumptious grew fat over the summer, and became – much to my chagrin – a beloved pet to the kids. Chloe, Josh, and David were enthralled with taking her for walks. Eventually, she followed them around everywhere. Twice I had to throw her out of the house, and one time Gabi found her in the goat barn. We never figured out who was red-handed in that crusade.

So when Thanksgiving finally neared, I was thrilled to be rid of Scrumptious.

Yet there I stood. Unable to move. That tiny-eyed turkey stared back at me with a quiet, pleading expression. Josh and Chloe had both implored me late last night not to butcher the bird today. Josh was just about in tears.

“Come on, Allan,” I muttered. “You'll never live it down.”

A loud squawking snapped me from the weird trance the turkey had put me in, and I noticed the black rooster hooting angrily near the grain feeder. I narrowed my eyes, a possible compromise inspired by the other bird.

~ ~ ~

Everyone was silent at the Thanksgiving table as the kids looked upon their turkey being carved and divided among the separate plates. Gabi tried to cheer everyone up, but to no avail.

I was just as guilty of the silence as the kids were – a growing ache of guilt for what I'd done was eating away at me.

“Well,” I said as I sat down. “Shall we pray?” I glanced at the kids. “This is hardly the right mood for a Thanksgiving dinner, don't you think?”

Chloe shrugged. “It's Scrumptious.”

“What is? The food? I know. Your mom makes excellent food.” I nodded to my wife. “Thank you, Gabi, for preparing this.”

She grinned. “You're welcome. That sure is a good-looking bird.”

I cleared my throat. “Uh, shall we p-pray?”

An odd tapping noise came to the back door. We all looked over. I stifled a sigh and buried my face in my hands. Barely half a second passed before Josh let out a startling yelp.

“Scrumptious!”

All three kids raced to the back door to greet our dinner guest. I groaned and glanced at Gabi.

“What do you think?”

She smiled again. “I think your heart is completely soft and you hate to admit it.” She burst out laughing, but I hardly shared the amusement.

The kids guided Scrumptious toward the table and set down a bowl of the dog food she liked. Big smiles reclaimed their faces. I chanced a look down at the turkey. She returned my gaze with a perplexing stare and those small eyes peered into mine as if saying “thank you".

“Shall we pray?” I asked my flock.

Josh and David nodded vigorously.

“Dad?” Chloe asked. “What bird is this?”

“Cosco.”

She cocked her head. “We didn't have a turkey named Cosco.”

I let a dusting of a grin appear. “Nope. But the store did.”

~ Fiction . . . maybe.

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