A Very Fancy Turkey at Thanksgiving

It was Thanksgiving in my dream a few nights ago. (For all of my international followers, I know you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but just play along anyway. [Who am I kidding, I don’t have any international followers; I’m pretty sure I know every one of you. {But hey, if there's anyone from a country other than the U.S. reading this blog, say hi! Just by commenting, you will make my day! (Okay, I'm pretty sure I'm talking to no one right now. Whatever.)}]) 

My family discovered that we had some distant relatives that none of us knew about, so we decided to spend Thanksgiving at their grungy old farm. This is how I should have understood it was a dream, because my family is so tradition-bound that we would have never ever ever just gone to a complete stranger’s house for Thanksgiving without some sort of picketing by at least two people outside the residence.

While they were cooking up who-knows-what in the kitchen, a few of us went to go see what kind of animals they had. Among the cows and chickens, we noticed an enormous black and bright pink turkey trotting around the farm. Its trot was more of a waltz than anything else; this was a very fancy turkey.

I stood there staring at it. Then my dimwitted, distant cousin-once-removed turned to me. I’ll say his name was Dierks.

DIERKS: Wanna see something cool?

ME: Yes, of course, always.

DIERKS: That turkey’s scared of ducks.

ME: What? Why?

DIERKS: It just is. We like to chase it with ducks.

ME: Ducks?

DIERKS: Ducks.

ME: But why would a bird be afraid of a smaller, wimpier bird?

DIERKS: It just IS, okay? Gosh, do you want to see it or not?

ME: Jeez, okay fine. Yes show me the turkey.

DIERKS: Ducks!

ME: I know! We’re going to grab ducks and chase the turkey with them, right? That’s what I meant.

DIERKS: I don’t like your tone, sir.

ME: Could I please see the ducks?

DIERKS: Turkey!

ME: Oh come on.

So we grabbed some ducks and started running after it. The turkey squawked and tried to run away, but then stopped, trembling.

DIERKS: It’s going to do the eye thing!

ME: What’s the eye thing?

DIERKS: Just look!

The turkey then curled up one of its wings into a number eight-like shape, leaving a small space of bright pink from its belly showing inside of it. This place of pink must have had darker spots on it, because it ended up looking like a pair of bright pink, quivering eyes. All while the turkey was making a sound similar to a very birdlike motor scooter accelerating to full speed.  (I unfortunately do not have an example of that.)

The turkey then kept running, and we continued to chase it with ducks until we reached a large pond. Turkey’s can’t swim, I thought, but the turkey leapt into the air, did a fancy flip, and dove into the water, and swam across the pond. It was fancy. 

 

We kept chasing it, ducks in hand, and the turkey then stopped and spread all its feathers, very much like the spitting dinosaur in Jurassic Park. It didn’t spit, though. It just kind of thrashed its feathers around.

[It was a very fancy turkey, though it didn't have very good defense mechanisms.] 

ME: This is great!

DIERKS: Toldja. 

 

Just then Dierks’ mom came out. Let’s call her Camille. She looked a little flustered, but who wouldn't be when hosting a whole family of people you don't know for Thanksgiving?

ME: How's the food coming?

CAMILLE: My dog’s a skunk.

ME: Oh haha. That’s okay. I can handle smelly dogs.

CAMILLE: No, you don’t understand. I just found out that Trixie, the dog I’ve had for ten years, is actually a skunk. A large, smelly rodent. Not a dog.

ME: Oh sweet Jesus.

CAMILLE: Trixie was playing with your dog, and then she just turned around and sprayed her. She’s a skunk.

I then made to walk into the house, past my dog, who was covered in tomato juice, and past Trixie, the skunk dog. At first glance, she looked like a matted-haired, ugly old dog, but upon closer inspection, I could make out a white stripe hidden in her black fur. How could they not notice it?

 [Actually, once I think about it, it's kinda difficult to tell them apart. Just saying. I also may not have very much respect for Pomeranians. They're a**holes. ]

Then I woke up, and all I could think of is that my mom was totally going to blog about this story before I could. After gaining more consciousness, I realized, of course, that that was impossible.