A sad story about a Thanksgiving Turkey.

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 …

…skinny turkeys are slow runners). Porky, strangled between Mr. Allen's side and left arm, pecks at Mr. Allen his tiny, sapling legs still moving back and forth as he is carried off into the big, black shed. Finally, legs swaying like trees in the wind, I lift myself up and proceed back to the trough, I pick up a stray seed and crunch it between by beak. I guess being the Fattest Turkey does pay.