house of happy

Life adventures in prose and verse. Explorations of places, people and words. Stories and fun.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

White Turkey

It gradually becomes apparent that the Famous Farm has many other inhabitants; there are telltale sightings and smells. At some point we find ourselves aware of them, amused, finally fascinated.

It's a holiday for some...

...and labour camp for others.

And then the Incident happens. Black Dog and Brownish Dog spring into action - demented barks, bunched muscles, mad dash to a squat stone wall overlooking a lower terrace. I spill my lemonade. It is beyond me how anyone would fail to see the events that follow.

Black Dog and Brownish Dog are chasing a white turkey. It speeds up along the wall until its body, being heavier than its stick-like legs, achieves more speed. Wings are employed at this point and a sudden change of direction. White Turkey flies off the wall and out of sight. The dogs take the stairs and hurtle onto the lower terrace, in hot pursuit. Sounds of a scuffle ensue, barks and squawks.

'Gosh, did you see that turkey?'
'Goose,' says M. who hadn't seen a thing.
'It was a white turkey,' I declare, icily.
'I think you are mistaken,' he says, 'it was a goose.'
'I think you will find it was twice the size of a goose.'
'And it had a bald head. With all those hanging skins...'
'Come on!' I implore the universe. 'It was a TURKEY. Someone must have seen it!'
'I saw it,' says Shane, but only mildly - whereas, everyone knows, you need fire and steely conviction, with M.
'Yeah. It was a goose,' M. says now, as if by repeating it, he makes it true.
'Trump tactic,' I accuse.
'You can't prove it was a turkey...'

And, just like that, I've got a turkey to prove.


On the lower terraces of the Famous Farm, I am investigating. I find a clump of white feathers, but no turkey and no dogs. I find some useless witnesses.

"No, madam, we're not hiding anyone. Namaste and see you later..."

I harrumph back into my chair. The manager brings more lemonade.
'Have you got a white turkey.'
'Aaah, yes, we had two... the male died a few months back...' (long story follows, about the death of the male turkey).
'But you still have the female?' I ask. Whose is that shrill voice, I wonder. Mine? Mais non...
'Yes, she's very old, very old... at least twelve...'
'But she's still here.'
'Yes, madam...' he agrees.
'SEE..?????' I shout, triumphant.
And what does M. have to say?
'Sure. It was a goose.'
I need a bloody white turkey. Or any form of evidence, a picture, a drumstick, DNA...


On the morning of our departure, still nothing. Before I have finished my coffee (and that says something), I ask the manager:
'Can I see your turkey? The white one? The female...'
He takes a solemn stance:
'Oh. I must regretfully inform you that the white turkey is deceased.'
To my left, and just outside slapping range, M. is laughing.
'Oh yes, madam. My employees have informed me this morning. It was a wild cat.'
'A wild cat what?'
'Got it, madam. A wild cat got the turkey.'
I'm speechless. I seethe.
' was a very old turkey,' the manager consoles.
'Where's the body?' I hiss.
'Who can tell?' he spreads his arms wide, to span the entire hazy valley and, in the distance, the Everest too.


Lesson? That I see white turkeys where the man sees geese? That we must agree to disagree? That sometimes the truth travels unseen, minced inside a wild cat? If I had time, I'd look for wild cat droppings because if that's the case, then that's what one must do.


Post a comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home