The Turkey

When my daughter was two years old, we bought her a donut. Let me correct that—I didn’t participate in the purchase. My only role was to suppress any complaints about how expensive the donuts were. They were fancy, baked apple cider donuts that you can only get at one of these bougie, Portland-area pumpkin patches catering to highfalutin, self-annointed “foodies.”

Whatever. The donut didn’t last long anyway. It was worth it to get through a family pumpkin patch visit, which I would rate somewhere between a drive-thru Christmas lights tour and a pumpkin-spiced enema in terms of holiday-themed torture. I would have bought a wheat thresher if it got me out of there faster.

Actually, I like being on farms a lot, but not because of the catering. It’s very interesting to see where food comes from. I’m not so curious about food's final (overly pretentious) destination, but it's origin has fascinated me since I took a few agricultural classes in vet school. The whole process of turning sunlight, water, earth, and animals into the stuff on a dinner plate is genuinely enthralling.

It’s especially pleasant if I get to hang out with the farm animals. Yes, I know most are destined for consumption in one form or another, but in a boutique farm setting, you can kind of get lost in the peaceful, bucolic existence of these animals. As a dog and cat vet, I don’t get to spend a ton of time with these species, so I like to just sit and observe them. They’re so different from us, and I respect the hell out of that.

Unfortunately, no one else wanted to sit with me in the mud and connect with the pre-bacon, so I was dragged along to the tractor ride and caramel apples against my yearning for agrarian bliss.

I’ll admit (with rare unselfish awareness) that my daughter was having a great time. She probably didn’t have a huge appreciation for the epicurean sophistication of the donut, which was covered in her boogers anyway, but she was happily gnawing on it as we approached the turkey pen.

The people in Portland are notoriously animal-friendly. I’m sure the donuts were vegan–did I mention how expensive they were?–and although the farm animals were obviously being raised for food, I think the crowd had convinced themselves this was more of a zoo than a slaughterhouse. Parents eagerly pointed toward little flocks of chickens roaming around the grounds, and the kiddos happily chased them around as if they were little celebrities.

Being close to live animals is exciting when you’re a kid, doubly so if they’re your size and not super skittish (like a good domestic species should be). It’s a magical experience to be within an animal’s flight distance, an exotic thrill like visiting a foreign land.

My daughter was having a great time, munching her sugary boogers, surrounded by strange and interesting organisms on a sunny autumn day. There’s a good chance it was the happiest moment of her life up to that point.

It seemed like it was about to get even better when a farmhand walked over to the turkey pen and opened the wire gate. Out strutted a magnificent tom, pure white feathers glaring in the midday sun and a crimson wattle bouncing vigorously under his chin like a royal vestment. Chickens are exciting and all, but there’s nothing like the feeling of being on foot with a bird that can look at you eye to eye.

He was stunning. Majestic. Charismatic. All the more so for a three-foot-tall two-year-old. It was very tempting to anthropomorphize this turkey. No lie, the crowd gasped as he sauntered out like a dignified king of olden days. You wanted to give him human characteristics; you could almost hear an orchestra blasting pompous fanfare with each proud footstep.

Imagine being two and seeing this thing, big as you are, with two legs and two eyes and the self-possession of a being completely devoid of the anxiety so infused into modern human society. He was magnificent! My sweet little daughter was completely transfixed, as were the rest of the kids and grownups in the crowd. For a moment, everyone forgot that he was an agricultural unit. He loomed like a mythical monarch surveying his domain, benign and magnanimous in his Tolkienesque glory.

But I knew better. I know what turkeys actually are.

A turkey is a f—king dinosaur.

Fat and feathered as he was, this tom had the heart of a ruthless tyrant. Anatomically, taxonomically, and behaviorally, he was a few branches on the family tree away from Tyrannosaurus rex. This is scientific fact, not taxonomic tomfoolery. Birds, from sparrows to cockatiels, have much more in common with Velociraptor than they do with even the most base mammalian forms (like French bulldog breeders). Take a moment to look at the scaly toes of a turkey next time you’re on a farm, and try not to imagine yourself being stalked through the jungle of Isla Nublar.

This black-eyed bastard walked straight up to my immobilized little girl, cocked his head slightly, and then—BAM!—struck the donut out of her hand with his beak like a speargun.

A moment later, the five-dollar confection disappeared down his gullet.

It took a while for the tears to subside, understandably so. But I have to say, I was proud of my little one. She recovered and had an (overall) good day at the pumpkin patch. I’d say her chances of dealing with long-term turkey-based trauma into adulthood are relatively low, and here’s my reasoning:

We saw this as an opportunity to talk about life, its little hiccups, and its unpredictabilities. We talked about animals, how they eat to survive, and how they don’t always have the manners and sense of justice we hope to see in our neighbors.

We discussed (at a two-year-old level) the perfectly normal way that animals go about getting their food, and how this system might feel unfair or painful at times, but ultimately life proceeds as it will. You can do everything in the world to resist this force or mitigate its negative impact on others, but it’s also okay to just be aware of it and accept it as best you can sometimes.

I’m not sure she got all that, but a month later, she was no longer upset at the mention of the donut-stealing turkey. Wearing her favorite holiday dress, surrounded by a large, loving family during Thanksgiving dinner, she looked happy. Actually, there was something maybe a bit more than just contentedness. Something… slightly disturbing. On her plate, which she tore into with unusual vigor for a picky two-year-old, were several slices of turkey meat. She glared down at it.

I guess revenge is a dish best served with cranberry sauce, after all. Probably a few boogers too.