Tom The Turkey

Tom the turkey was one big, mean bird. While his turkey hens and their chicks were busy pecking and scratching in the dirt, Tom strutted around stretching his wings almost to the ground; and spreading his big tail fan; and with that big, red, hangey-down thing above his beak alternately going from long and thin to short and fat like some big, red, bloodsucking leech crawling out of his brain. Tom would never eat in front of people.

Tom would even go out into the woods that came up behind the barn. Those woods were full of predators like foxes, weasels, bears, and maybe even tigers. The other barnyard fowl would always remain under the watchful eye of the big dog, Blue. But Tom roamed free.

Tom and I battled one day. I had made a spear by cutting the handle off an old mop. I tested my weapon by dispatching a pride of hungry lions, but such easy prey as lions served only to heighten my bloodlust; so I, fierce African warrior, impudent human, fool! Launched my spear at Tom, but Tom’s magic was strong.

He willed my spear to turn aside, thus preventing me from robbing him of his very life. Then with feathers bristling like spikes, wings spread, and neck outstretched like a battering ram, Tom charged. Weaponless, I fled toward the house. I thought I could outrun any bird-except maybe an ostrich-but all I could hear was his angry gobble buzz bombing up ever closer behind me. Tom was fast.

And then he had me down and I was screaming and kicking and Tom was doing an Indian war dance around me and gobbling hideously and shaking that big, red, hangey-down, leechy-looking thing in my face! And my mother ran out of the house, picked up a stick, and knocked Tom out cold.

A few minutes later, I watched through the kitchen window as Tom got up and wobbled off. He was okay, but definitely without his former swagger of invincibility. And maybe that’s why the foxes got him that winter.