Turkey Cull

Written by Laird Long, Published on 10/23/2009

Turkeys have excellent hearing. On the first Tuesday of October, when the five-bird flock was out pecking around in the yard behind Farmer MacDougall’s home, they overheard the chilling words that would drive one of them to attempted man-slaughter.

Farmer MacDougall and a stranger were standing in front of the open kitchen window of the house, looking out at the turkeys. “We’re only asking for one,” the stranger said. “Surely, you can spare one for the Thanksgiving dinner down at the Mission this year, Farmer MacDougall. It would help feed a number of disadvantaged families.”

At the mere mention of the word ‘Thanksgiving’, the big birds in the yard froze. Beaker and Beau stopped gobbling at one another. Red stopped her clipped beak in mid-preen. The newest addition to the flock, a Canadian bird named Leaf, who’d kept to himself for the week he’d been on the farm so far, cocked a beady eye at the window. While Old Leatherneck, twelve years-young and counting, was instantly jolted awake, his blue and red wattles flying as he jerked his head upwards.

“Well, I don’t know,” Farmer MacDougall said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I’m mighty attached to all of my birds. I’ve never really considered them food, except for the eggs, of course. Why, I just don’t-”

“Farmer MacDougall, please!” the stranger interrupted. “We know we’re going to be short of turkeys this year – what with the Poultry Mill shutting down. And with the economic recession, monetary donations are way down with which to buy turkeys. We’re only asking you for one!”

The five turkeys stared up at Farmer MacDougall, as he looked down at them. He rubbed his jaw, in behind his ear. Normally, he would give some money to the Mission himself. But times were tough. “Weeelll, ookaay, you can have one bird … I guess.”

Red fell over in a dead faint, while Beau and Beaker’s tail feathers fanned up in alarm.

*

“You all know why we’re here,” Beau stated a day later, looking around at the other four turkeys gathered in the barn. A heavy frost had crusted the ground that morning, fall and fall suppers truly in the air now.

“Why?” Red asked. Even for a turkey, she was a particularly dumb cluck.

“Because we all live here, that’s why,” Beaker said impatiently. “Where else are we going to be?”

“No!” Beau retorted, shaking his snood in frustration. “Because Farmer MacDougall is going to kill one of us for the Mission’s Thanksgiving dinner. Our necks are on the line!”

“Not mine,” Old Leatherneck crowed. “I’m too old and stringy, wouldn’t make much of a meal.”

“Well, as a hen, I’m only half as heavy as you toms,” Red said, primping her feathers, “so I wouldn’t feed many – would I?”

“We have to stop Farmer MacDougall,” Beau intoned meaningfully, his eyes darting from one bird to the other, way over to Leaf off by himself in a corner of the barn. “We have to get him before he gets one of us.”

There was a general ruckus of yelping and whistling at that pronouncement. The turkeys liked Farmer MacDougall and the way he treated them – lots of mash and grains to eat, plenty of water, straw-lined nooks to roost in and a free range to stretch their legs. But now, with their lives at stake, they realized they had to flock together.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Old Leatherneck queried.

“Wait a minute!” Beaker exclaimed. “I’ve got it! I can write to the President and ask for a pardon. He does that, you know, for certain birds.”

Beau scoffed. “You can’t write.”

“No, but I can peck out a letter on Farmer MacDougall’s computer.”

“Good luck with that,” Old Leatherneck stated sourly.

“I think what Beau is saying is that Farmer MacDougall has to have an accident,” Leaf suddenly spoke up from across the barn, the first time he had said anything to the other birds. “Right, Beau?”

“Exactly,” the big bird beaked.

The turkeys looked at one another, their walnut-sized brains working.

*

It was a cold, foggy morning the second Tuesday in October, when Farmer MacDougall walked out of his house and across the yard to the barn, intent on milking Brown Betty the cow. His eyes were bleary after another sleepless night – the recent turkey promise he’d made to the Mission man was weighing heavily on his mind – and so, as he pulled the barn door open, he failed to notice the rake lying half-buried in the straw just inside the door.

He stepped into the barn, onto the steel-pronged end of the leaf and grass-gathering tool. The long, heavy wooden handle of the rake shot upwards and struck him square in the forehead. He dropped like a sack of turkey feed and lay still in the straw.

*

The five turkeys filed out of their pen at the rear of the barn when Farmer MacDougall was late with their breakfast. They found the old sod-tiller, flat on his back.

“Good gravy!” Red yelped. “Farmer MacDougall’s had an accident!”

Old Leatherneck stepped forward and examined the rake lying across Farmer MacDougall’s chest, poked around in the straw and came up with a tail feather. “Was no ‘accident’,” the old bird concluded. “We turkeys have powerful legs and long, strong toes, just right for dragging a rake into the proper position. Looks to me like someone tried to get Farmer MacDougall to buy the farm, like we all talked about last week.”

He stroked his beard with a wing, gazing at the assembled turkeys, Leaf by himself off to the side. “And I think I can guess who the dirty bird is,” he added.

Just as Farmer MacDougall raised his head and gave it a shake. The man groaned, feeling like he’d just had the stuffing knocked out of him.