Tom Turkey was a bit upset. Each year, ever since he was a young turkey of 14 months, he’d had to find a new hiding place lest Farmer Johnson rush out to capture and kill him for Thanksgiving Dinner. “Yeesh!” complained Tom. “You’d think he’d wanna eat chickens, for gosh sakes…they’re easier to carve, quicker to cook…and cheaper, too!”
But alas, humans had become so used to turkey dinners on Thanksgiving, that no other bird would do, much to the chagrin of Tom Turkey, who now, at the ripe old age of five and sporting quite a wiggly waddle plus a double chin, was getting tired, tired, tired, of always having to run away from impending doom.
Even though every year he went on a self-imposed diet starting right after Labor Day to ensure he was skinny, skinny, skinny, Tom was still very, very, very, afraid because, well, let’s face it…he wasn’t getting any younger, and consequently couldn’t sprint much faster to escape the inevitable ‘thwaaack’ of Farmer Johnson’s sharp-edged blade.
“Oh dear, Oh dear, Oh dear!” wailed Tom Turkey to no one in particular while looking up to the skies. “Oh, where, oh where, oh where, am I going to hide to make sure I stay alive?” He started running around the barnyard in crazy zigzag circles frantically searching for some new, undiscovered place…and all the while his twaddle and double chins kept flapping in the breeze made by his frenzied feathers.
“For, Pete’s sake!” cried YMG, the Big Mother Hen who also lived in the barnyard. “What’s all the commotion about?” she cuckolded, sticking her head out of the barn. “You’re disturbing my sleep, and I reeeally do need my beeeauuuty rest!” she said. “I’m so sorry, YMG!” bleated Tom Turkey. “I’m all in a fret ‘cause I need a new hiding place! It’s that time of year again…Thanksgiving!!!”
“I see, I see, I see,” clucked YMG, understandingly. “Well, why don’t you come inside the barn and hide inside my nest? You’ve lost so much weight this year, I think you’ll just fit in. I’ll nest on you and pretend you’re one of my chicks!”
“Oh yes, Oh yes, Oh yes! What a clever plan. Oh, you’re such a sweet and clever girl!” exclaimed Tom Turkey. “Yes, it just might work.” So, Tom dove into the barn and settled himself comfortably in YMG’s warm, straw bed.
Much to the delight of both Tom Turkey and YMG, when Farmer Johnson strode through the barnyard looking for that special turkey for his Thanksgiving dinner, he selected Arnold, a 10-month-old turkey who was quite nicely rounded and fattened up for such a young bird. And even though tender young Arnold was to be sacrificed, well, he was too young to even notice really, as his brain was still the size of a pea.
“Aaaaahhh!” sighed Tom Turkey in huge relief, as another year had gone by and once again he stayed alive. And next year, he’d be too old and would never again be chosen for a Thanksgiving meal as his meat would be leather-tough and rather unpleasant to eat. So, he would be allowed to live out his remaining days in Farmer Johnson’s barnyard in calm and peace. Tom was now one happy camper…er, turkey.
Whaaa?? You didn’t think this story would have an unhappy ending did you?