A sad story about a Thanksgiving Turkey.

Essay by lightingboltCollege, Undergraduate January 2006

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It's the day before Thanksgiving, the worst day to be a turkey. Currently, I'm working part-time at the Foraker Farm in Palmer. The people are nice. My job is to take care of the turkeys and get them fattened up for Thanksgiving. Now, that, normally, shouldn't be a big deal. However, I have bonded with this turkey that I named Giblet. Tomorrow, I imagine myself in the middle of a decorated Thanksgiving table, white booties covering my feet and stuffed with pieces of bread. Why would anyone want to eat a beautiful turkey like me? My body is perfectly round from visiting the trough so many times a day. The beautiful feathers covering me are a mixture of browns and blacks with a few flecks of whites here and there. In back, there are even more colored feathers fanned out like a neutral colored rainbow. Last summer I was named the Fattest Turkey in the state fair, and my name appeared in the local paper.

Now I stand by my trough, pieces of feed surround me and I can't help but to shake my head as I peck the seeds. The feed lost its taste long ago, but I eat anyway this is going to be my last meal ever.

Out of the thirteen original turkeys on the Allen farm, only two remain: me and Porky. As I peck at seeds, Porky circles the rusty wire fence making a clipped gobbling sound, his wrinkly red neck stretched out as if the metal blade of the ax is going to cut into his neck at any second. Tiny white feathers leap out of his body as he walks, floating down and disappearing onto the snow. I look at Porky with disgust, despite his name, Porky is skinny. His body is...