Well, sir, I have been asked to relate the sentiments of a turkey concerning that annual autumn institution called Thanksgiving, and being of a literary bent—though my reading has been largely confined to the seeds scattered near the fence-post—I shall endeavor to do so.

My name is Plato, a title bestowed upon me by the farmer’s wife, who has, I confess, a classical education and a heart of flint. I reside, or rather, I did reside, upon a tolerably comfortable spread of land, where my days were spent in the philosophical pursuits of pecking at bugs, strutting for the hens, and contemplating the profound silliness of the guinea fowl.

For many months, I considered myself a bird of singular fortune. The corn was plentiful, the sun was warm, and the fence kept out the foxes. I grew to a magnificent size, my feathers taking on a bronze sheen that was the envy of the entire roost. I was, in short, the picture of poultry prosperity. I believed the world was ordered for my benefit, and that the farmer was a kind of clumsy, two-legged deity whose sole purpose was to provide for my comforts.

This blissful ignorance is a common affliction amongst our kind, and indeed, amongst mankind itself. A fellow is never more confident in his permanent security than when he is at his most plump and pleasing to the eye.

The first chill of autumn brought a change in the atmosphere, a certain grim industry that should have given me pause. The farmer and his sons, who had previously regarded me with a sort of bovine indifference, now began to look upon me with a new and unsettling light in their eyes. It was a speculative look; the same look I have seen a man give a woodpile he is about to split.

Then came the whispers. “Big one this year,” I heard the youngest son say, patting my breast with a hand that felt less like a caress and more like a surveyor’s tool.

My suspicions, once a tiny seed, began to sprout. Why was the old chopping-block, usually buried under a tangle of weeds, suddenly scrubbed clean and placed in a position of grim prominence in the yard? Why did the farmer’s wife consult her almanac with such a serious air? And what, pray tell, was the meaning of the great, dark oven being stoked for hours on end, until it glowed with the heat of a dragon’s gullet?

A dreadful understanding dawned upon my soul. This was not merely a change of season. It was a preparation for a festival, and I was not to be a guest at the feast, but its central attraction.

The other birds, a simple-minded lot, clucked on, oblivious. “Isn’t it grand,” said one hen, “how they fatten us up so before the weather turns?” I looked at her with a pity that was akin to despair. Her faith was as touching as it was fatal.

On the fateful morning, the air was crisp and cruelly bright. The farmyard was preternaturally quiet. I saw my fate in the glint of the sun on the axe-head. I understood then the profound irony of my existence: that all my growth, all my splendid conditioning, had not been for my own betterment, but had merely made me a more desirable candidate for destruction.

It is a hard thing for a turkey to learn that he has been, from the very beginning, not a citizen of the farm, but a temporary resident with a pre-ordained and culinary destiny.

Well, the rest is mere mechanics. There was a brief, undignified scuffle, a moment of profound theological doubt concerning the fairness of the universe, and then… well, then I found myself in this state.

And now, as I sit upon this vast platter, surrounded by the gaudy splendor of roasted apples and sage dressing, my skin a beautiful, crackling brown, I am possessed of a final, philosophical thought. I observe the hungry faces of the family gathered around, their prayers of thanks being offered up for the bounty before them. And I cannot help but think, with the last vestige of my avian consciousness, that there is no spectacle so absurd, and no creature so paradoxical, as a human being offering a solemn grace over the corpse of the fellow whose neck he has just wrung.

They call it a day of Thanksgiving. And for once, sir, the turkey is in complete agreement. He is just thankful it is finally over.

I wish all my readers and friends who celebrate it, a very Happy Thanksgiving!

*****

And, you know I couldn’t possibly neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays, a very nice stocking stuffer, is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.