Satire: Reflections From a Pardoned Turkey

It’s good to be in on something from the ground floor. My ancestors called Plymouth, MA home. In a glorious day of collaboration between the Wampanoag peoples and Puritan settlers, my distant grandmother played a small but important role — she was the first turkey to be killed in the name of Thanksgiving. 

I’ve gotten the feeling I’m at the end of this great tradition. The best is over. 

Nowadays, everyone has alternatives — they get extra stuffing, synthetic meat or even order out to protest the holiday altogether. This change in attitude is seeping into the culture of us turkeys and disrupting life as we know it. 

When my father — Tom Gobbles — grew up, the only life he knew was a cage. He never went hungry. In fact, he ate five times a day. When Thanksgiving came around, he knew it was his time. He took pride in it. Whatever happened to turkeys like Tom Gobbles? He was that strong, silent type you just don’t see around anymore. 

Back in his day, turkeys had standards. We knew our roles. Now we’re on free range ranches acting like a bunch of chickens. To think there’s anything more to life than being topped with gravy and inducing someone’s food coma is naive and silly. The fact is, your stomach will never be full without eating turkey on Thanksgiving. 

A few days before Thanksgiving, my time had finally come. Just like my father and his father before him, they put me in a crate and on a truck. I ended up at an ornately decorated estate. The prospect of being a centerpiece to this seemingly important family excited me. With little delay, I was placed on a table in front of a crowd. This is the grand sacrifice I had looked forward to for my entire life. I was fulfilling my lineage’s destiny. 

That is, until a grandpa with white hair and aviators  — the kind of guy to only eat dark meat — smirked from the side of his mouth and waved his arms in my general direction. I didn’t understand it at the time, but looking back now, it’s obvious what happened — I had been pardoned. 

I’ve only been on this planet for 20 weeks. I understand pardoning as a concept, but in my world, it just doesn’t go down. The humiliating practice stripped me of my self-worth and robbed me of any purpose. 

Every turkey I grew up with accomplished something for the greater good of Thanksgiving.  Jenny Hen’s eggs are as fresh as they come, and my buddy, Ron, has been in a grocery store for two weeks at this point.

I’ve lost my purpose in life. I’m condemned to become a wandering turkey — the kind that spooks unsuspecting college kids for a two-week period in the fall, never to be seen again.  

You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be the pardoned turkey. Everywhere I waddle I’m met with hushed gobbles before my peers fly off. Soon, I suspect, the regularness of life will become too difficult for me. My only hope is this pardon wears off by Christmas.