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(Editor’s Note:When this post was first published in November 2008 it became an instant classic…So, we’re making it a new tradition here at IA. Original comments follow:

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All of us here at IA would like to extend to all our visitors our best wishes for a wonderful Thanksgiving Day. We hope any political differences that may be within your families will be put aside to so that everyone can reflect on the good things that life brings our way.

Before Kenosha Marge begins her entertaining true story about a particular turkey that entered her life, I want to offer a little aside about the wild turkeys I saw while living in New Jersey.  Unbelievably, I saw two birds in “full feather” emerge from a small wooded area in back of the office in Hamilton, NJ (suburban Trenton) one day as I was standing at the copy machine, gazing out the window. Needless to say, I was totally shocked, considering that the office was in the middle of a very busy area, not in the “wilds of NJ.”  The two birds were magnificent and gave me the thrill of a lifetime!

So, on to Kenosha Marge’s wonderful story…and best wishes for your Thanksgiving Day from Marge, Grail Guardian, American Lassie, Leslie, and me!  And, we give our thanks to all of you for visiting our site. ~~InsigntAnalytical-GRL)

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The Saga of Tom Turkey (A Bird with Attitude)

~~By Kenosha Marge

Our family has a Thanksgiving story that is trotted out ever year. With a golden brown carcass of a roasted turkey having pride of place on the dinner table we tell the tale of another turkey. We speak of a turkey that never graced anyone’s dinner table.

The story starts innocently enough. The spouse decided one spring that what we needed most in life was to raise our own turkeys. Having learned nothing from the debacle of the raising of our own chickens he insisted that we had no idea of the taste delight of homegrown turkey. He had said the same thing about the chickens but only he and our eldest son and the occasional guest could attest to that fact since the rest of us were unable to eat a chicken we knew.

Our little 8-acre mini-farm was already home to an odd assortment of animals including 2 horses, 4 dogs, 17 goats and some cats. No number is given for the cats because we never knew how many cats we had at any given time.

People from miles around would drive to the end of our driveway to “drop” off an unwanted cat. We did not so much welcome them as they simply moved into the barn and made themselves at home. The saddest were the pampered house cats and the neutered males. Newsflash for irresponsible pinheads that think farm cats will welcome a neutered male into their midst; such poor animals were killed within days or were driven off to starve. Many had also been de-clawed so they couldn’t even fight back. I hope there is a special place in hell for those people that dropped neutered and de-clawed cats off at the end of my driveway.

My herd of goats is another story. It started from just one goat. A nanny goat purchased because our younger son was allergic to cow’s milk. I decided that I would keep a milk goat so that we could always be assured of a fresh supply of milk for our Joe.

I failed to realize that the goat would have to have a baby every year, aka a kid, or she wouldn’t be lactating. Because I fell in love with each and every kid we never sold any and my herd kept on growing. I got very good at making goat’s milk cheese and ice cream. Joe grew out of his allergy and I was stuck milking 16 nanny goats twice a day and feeding one very smelly “he” goat.

But back to the tale of Tom the Turkey. One cold and sunny spring Saturday the spouse came home with a box containing 6 turkey chicks or poults. Expecting cute and fuzzy we were confronted with six gangly, ugly little turkeys, six very noisy, gangly, ugly little turkeys. Turkeys who had to reside in the house because, did I mention that it was cold outside and they would die of the cold?

So the turkey chicks came into the house, or rather into the basement. No way I was going to get to know these critters. I kept the kids away from them as much as possible too. But it’s difficult to become attached to turkeys. They are just so damn stupid. Young turkeys left outside in the rain will look up until some of them will actually drown.

However our six young turkeys grew and thrived. We soon discovered that 5 were hen turkeys and 1 was a tom. That’s when things began to go awry. Tom the turkey was not a nice turkey. He was not docile like his sisters. He seemed to have been hatched with a chip on his shoulder, or whatever serves a turkey as a shoulder. Tom was hatched pissed off and never got over it. Perhaps he was aware of the fate in store for him and his sisters. As he grew, and did he grow, his disposition did not improve.

The 5 hens just grew. They grew big. By the time it was time to think about turning them into a meal they were huge. The smallest weighed in at 31 pounds and the largest weighed 38 pounds. Where do you find a pan capable of roasting a 38-pound turkey?

And Tom? Well the last time the spouse was able to pick him up and weigh him he weighed 42 pounds. After that picking Tom up was not possible if you valued life and limb. To say he objected is a massive understatement.

Spouse may have been competent to dispatch 4-pound chickens but 30-pound turkeys are a different matter. They fight back. Hen number one was also shocked into sticking both of her legs straight out to the side at the moment she met her maker. This result made it easy to stuff her but impossible to get her into the oven. One leg or another kept catching on the oven door. We finally just lopped one off and stuck it in the pan. The other stuck straight up and did sort of provide a self-basting mechanism.

Spouse then attempted the demise of hen number 2 and Tom decided to intervene. We’ll never know if Tom was feeling some love for his sisters or just his usual hate for the spouse. While spouse was attempting to sneak up on the second hen, Tom was sneaking up on him. Tom was better at the sneaking part. Suffice it to say the picture of a 50+ pound turkey riding my 6’4” husband and pecking at his head is not a sight I’ve ever been able to forget. Nor the running in circles, yelling, cussing and flapping of arms of said spouse.

Hubby eventually bucked Tom off and escaped from the turkey pen. Tom patrolled the pen and Hubby retreated to the house to have me attend to his wounds. Band-aids and Bactine soon soothed the nicks on his neck and both cheeks. However only time would take care of the missing patch of hair on his crown.

Now hubby declared war! First he had to separate Tom from the rest of the herd, er, flock. Son number one was the fleetest of foot so he was bait. He stood in the driveway between the turkey pen and the barn and made noises while son number two opened the gate of the pen and then hid behind it. Daughter and I were spectators hidden safely behind the kitchen window.

Son number one ran into the barn with Tom hot on his heels. Hubby, who was hiding behind a bush by the barn, (you really had to see this part to appreciate it), then slammed the barn door. Son number one ran out the other side and closed the door. Tom was now safely contained in the barn with all the cats and the goats. He scared Minnie so bad she didn’t give milk for several days. One cat disappeared and was never seen again. Personally I’ve always believed it decided to look for a less dysfunctional family to live with.

Tom was in the barn, spouse quickly dispatched the 4 remaining hens and they were soon in the freezer. However, night was coming and there was goat milking to be done. Anyone that thought I was going into the barn with an angry 50+ pound turkey roaming around was mistaken.

Now the men folk needed a plan to get Tom back into the pen. I’m not sure what the plan was but Tom escaped from the barn and headed off into the cornfield. I raced to the barn; made sure that both doors were closed and proceeded to milk my poor traumatized herd of goats. I then raced back to the house with a bucket in each hand and the milk sloshing with every step. I assure you I felt every bit as idiotic as I must have looked.

Our thought that all turkeys are dumb was soon proven wrong as Tom the turkey continued to outsmart the men folk. They never were able to catch him or herd him back into his pen although it wasn’t for lack of trying. Tom wandered wild and free stealing food from the garden, the goats and the horses. I’m not sure he didn’t steal cat food too.

Tom wandered the countryside like some giant ball of white feathers and only showed up occasionally to chase terrified guests into the house. It’s amazing how much speed a portly female can get up to when she sees an enormous gobbling bird bearing down on her. And it’s amazing how un-gallant the men are as they take off and pass their wives at a dead run heading for safety.

Tom nearly met his match one day when a Wisconsin State Trooper pulled into the yard. The Trooper headed for the backdoor and suddenly Tom came running and a gobbling loudly as usual. The look on the Troopers face was another sight I will treasure. I know I saw him reach for his weapon although he later denied it.

I came to his rescue with my Tom the Turkey handler, a cattle prod. I never touched him with it but the buzzing noise was enough to make him keep his distance. Tom gave in to me brandishing the cattle prod and besides I’m sure he saw that Trooper reach for his gun.

I tried to appear nonchalant as the Trooper instructed me that he would be picking me up the following week to testify about an accident I had witnessed. I suspect he was now apprehensive about my qualifications as a credible witness.

The Saga of Tom the Turkey came to end in the autumn of his 3^rd year. Quite a ripe old age for a domestic turkey actually. More than once the spouse threatened to shoot that damn bird but he never did. I think he thought that would be “cheating” and wanted to defeat Tom fair and square. He had come to have respect for a worthy foe.

Tom met his end in a most Tom-like way. He was chasing the neighbor’s dog down the driveway and ran in front of a Chevy Impala. Tom died immediately. The lady who was driving the car had hysterics all over my front yard, the Sheriff’s Deputy who showed up seemed more interested in the size of Tom’s carcass than in the lady’s hysterics and my homeowners insurance refused to pay for the damage on her car inflicted by Tom’s last hurrah.

Tom was buried, not eaten, and perhaps the whole episode explains why I became a vegetarian. I hope that Tom went on to a better world with thick piles of soft hay to rest his weary drumsticks on after a fulfilling day of chasing large, slow humans and various quadrupeds to his heart’s content.

Talking turkey:

Here are a few turkey facts for those of you that have nothing better to do with you time or for those of you who are just sponges for knowledge.

The brightly colored growths on the throat region of a turkey are called caruncles. They turn bright red when the turkey is upset or during courtship.

The gizzard is the part of a bird’s stomach that contains tiny stones. It helps them to grind up for digestion.

A hen, of course, is the female turkey. A male turkey is a tom or is also known as a gobbler. A turkey chick is a poult. The flap of skin that hangs over a turkey’s beak is called a snood. It also turns bright red when the turkey is upset or during courtship.

The flap of skin under the turkey’s chin is called a wattle. It also turns bright red when the turkey is upset or during courtship.

Scientific genus and species: Meleagris gallopavo

The turkey industry grosses over $1billion a year.

The average American consumes over 15 pounds of turkey per year.

Americans consume over 675 million pounds of turkey on Thanksgiving Day.

Oh, and one more fact for you; Benjamin Franklin wanted the national bird to be a turkey.