Scruffow’s Turkey Farm: no pardon here

Heritage Turkeys at Springfield Farms in Spark...

Heritage Turkeys at Springfield Farms in Sparks, Maryland. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Scruffow’s Turkey Farm: no pardon here

“Hey Strut! Get a look at this.” Sam stood on spindly legs peering inside their feed trough. He poked through the yellow corn with his beak. “There’s a new kind of grain mixed here with our old stuff. Looks like some kind of granola.” Sam scooped up a beak full. He took more, then a little more. The chewed grainy granola slid pleasantly down his gullet.

“Hmm. Farmer Scruffow brought us some decent food for a change. Not the usual stuff we’re used to. Hey, ‘bird brain,’ come look at this.”

Strut padded over to the corrugated steel trough. Called ‘Bird brain,’ for his ability to analyze everything stirred the concoction with his beak, tasting it. He agreed. “It’s definitely an improvement. A better quality premium grade feed.”

Gerta waddled over. Her full-feathered white coat and natural boa clung to her well-endowed frame. A wiggle to her waddle caught the attention of the male turkeys that followed in her wake. “What are you all gawking at?” she asked.

“Gobble, gobble.” Sam croaked, his beady eyes bulged at the sight of her lofty breasts, stout thighs, and fanned spray of white feathers. Her large red beak made him dizzy, and his wattle quiver with excitement.

Squawk swooped down on the fence post, stirring up the molting turkey feathers in the pen. The nosy, black crow knew everything that went on at Scruffow’s Turkey Farm.

“Hey, Squawk. What’s up?” asked Strut.

“YO!. I haven’t had breakfast. How about sharing your …Hey! Is that some new feed, there? I overheard farmer Scruffow talking with farmer Sniffoo. Scruffow’s going to select one of you to be his guest for Thanksgiving Day dinner.” Squawk swiped at turkey feathers settling on his shiny black coat.

“I think he has plans for you all and one especially for his guest on….”

“Wo! You mean one of us gets to have dinner with the farmer and his wife?” Buff said.

“Hey, idiot. Does your pea brain not comprehend what kind of “guest” you’d become?” asked Squawk.

“Strut? Does that mean what I think it means?” Sam asked, nodding at the grain trough with his beak.

“Yes. One of us is going to dinner at the Scruffows. Slow roasted, dressed up on a platter, seasoned and stuffed. Then the farmer and his wife will toss out our remains in the trash. The gourmet grain is to help fatten us up like a pig so we will be plump and juicy.”

“You mean …” Buff could hardly get the words out. “Like a centerpiece?” The thought of him being slow roasted and served on a platter gave him the shudders and shakes.

“Remember Joe?” asked Squawk. “He went last year. I remember seeing the farmer carrying Joe’s carcass to the garbage can just hours after he ‘invited’ him to dinner. He was a tough bird. To capture that is. I bet he tasted juicy and tender after they fattened him up. He put up a real fight though. Feathers flying all over the place and then…well, you know the rest.”

“Oh my. To be so disposed…” Gerta’s beak and gullet turned as pale as her white boa feathers. Her rotund frame swayed, wobbling on thin spindly legs before finally falling to the ground like dead weight. Sam quickly trotted over and frantically fanned Gerta with his wings. She came to, but sat visibly shaken in a disheveled squat. Helping her upright proved to be harder. He tugged too hard accidentally pulling some of her prized feathers from her wings.

“What are we going to do, Strut?” asked Sam.

“We’re going to get out of here!” Looking over at Squawk, Strut said. “And we’re going to need your help, Squawk.”

Turning their heads toward a loud racket, they watched in horror at a truck rumbling down the street filled with live turkeys from the neighboring turkey farm. The open slats in the sides of the enclosed truck showed beaks, wings, and legs poking through the packed truck.

“Hey, dudes. You better come up with a plan fast. I won’t be anybody’s centerpiece,” exclaimed Buff.

Squawk flew over to the telephone pole where all his friends gathered. Their squawking, tweeting and chirping could be heard from one end of the road to the other. He then flew back to the turkey hutch with news.

“Strut, you know those trucks we saw?  With all the turkeys in them?” asked Squawk?

“Yea? Where were they going?”

“Trucks leaving from the turkey farms are packed and loaded with live turkeys. Hours later, the trucks come back empty. The turkeys are unloaded into a place where humans in rubber boots, aprons, and gloves put them onto moving ramps. They are …” Gulp. “Silenced! I mean no more gobbling, just one last screech, and …zilch.” Squawk’s wing swept across his neck imitating the hacking stroke of a turkey ‘whacker’.

Strut’s eyes looked as big as half dollars as he realized that he and his friends faced the same fate.

______________________

To be continued …

Joyce E. Johnson (2013)

Posted November 27, 2013 by Joyce in Fiction

Tagged with , , , ,

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