Ok, this is a lot longer than the first one, but I think I capture the flavor of the original...mostly. If there's anything I missed, let me know. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So I had several turkeys for a while (four). One was killed first night out in the pen by critters unknown who pulled it backward through the fence and left his liver for me to find (no fava beans or Chianti, though). They were very cute, like oversized chickens, with an endearing habit of making a whistling peep when you got near them, and they would run to you when you had food. They had soft big eyes and fuzzy little head feathers, and were very calm and docile. However, over time and as they grew larger, their endearing traits quickly became annoying ones. Traits such as roosting on the deck, splattering gallons of poo every time they decided to drop a load (which was about every 15 minutes), and dropping said loads right on the pavers in front of the stairs (unless they were on the deck). They had acres to roam and poop on, yet they insisted on depositing directly in front of the front door, every time. I had three turkeys left after a while - Dante, Baccala and The Gimp. Each turkey weighed in at approximately 50-60 pounds, with Baccala being the heaviest at around 70 pounds. The Gimp received a shotgun blast to the head after having both of his wings broken by the other two (a rare turkey-on-turkey violent event). My friend Nick was visiting while this was going on, I'm sure it gave the folks back home something to talk about. We attempted eating him, but the meat was awful. Bronze-breasted turkeys are meant to be consumed sometime before six months; after that, they get tough and nappy. Baccala and Dante were now approaching two years old. So, now we have two large crap-producing machines who spend their days majestically puffing up at such sexy items as white cars and shiny hubcaps, leaving mounds of poop everywhere, and generally being an irritant. They had become so large that their toes were starting to curl inward. They were particularly enamored of hubby's big white truck; every time he had it out, they would strut their stuff for the rims and the doors, whistling and turning their heads blue. You could grab the long dangly thing over their noses and pull it like chewing gum. One day, I'm in the feed store complaining about the turkeys, and the guy behind the counter makes me an offer. Two bags of chicken feed (about thirty bucks) and I'll take one of your turkeys off your hands. I leap at the chance, two guys in a truck show up a few days later, and we commence trying to get a slow moving, whistling, crapping wonder into a truck. After duct-taping his wings down, I ask what is going to be done with Baccala. This is the part that is so weird you are going to think I'm making it up. The local ski resort, Silver Mountain, has apparently tasked these guys with finding a turkey. Okay, no big deal. However, the reason they want a turkey is they are going to send him down the sledding hill, on an innertube, in some guy's lap - filming the entire thing for posterity. After which, the guy on the innertube is going to take the turkey home because he's always wanted a turkey as a pet. I swear to God this is the truth. I told them to put him in a sack because he's going to get hurt with a whistling crap machine beating the hell out of him with a six-foot wingspan (as well as poopin' all over him). The guys look startled and one guy touches his cheek, the remnant of a wing buffeting just starting to fade. They agree, although I don't know if they'll take my advice, and off they go. So I get my chicken feed, Baccala goes away, and Dante continues to puff up, whistle, and crap on my paving stones. One fine day, I'm in a very bad mood, heading out to feed the chickens. I move toward the house, step in turkey crap (which stinks to high heaven, just so you know) and completely lose my temper. I tell the kids to get into the house, get my sharpest kitchen knife and my MP3 player, and head out to deal with the feckless Dante once and for all. I'd been threatening to knock him off for a while, but never got around to it, and that patch of incredibly stanky poo finally sharpened my resolve. I locate Dante, and realize that the aforementioned wings are going to be a problem. After fruitlessly hunting for duct tape in the basement, I come upon the idea of using an old wool sweater, put over his head, arms tied around his back. THAT will hold his wings down while I administer the coup de grace. Or so I thought. Turkeys are slow moving, but they can wiggle, so after fifteen minutes of wrestling with 60+ pounds of whistling terrified poop machine, I finally get the sweater over his head, arms tied over his back. Poop is now everywhere, adding to my totally foul mood because before it was just on my foot, now it's all over and I REEK of it. I take him to the side of the house, warn the kids not to come outside, grab his head from behind, and prepare for a fountain of blood. I put the knife edge to his throat and whip it to the side and...nothing happens. I look at his neck, look at the blade, and try again. Nothing. He's got armor-plated scales on his neck, titanium or something, because this damn knife that I just cut myself on two days before is doing nothing.at.all to kill this turkey. (It was a Henckels, and a good one). It didn't even give him a scratch! More poop is flying out of the sweater-covered turkey, I'm starting to sweat and get hot, so I stomp into the house, vowing to end this stink machine once and for all. I retrieve the Kimber Custom II from it's customary hiding place, again warn the kids to stay inside, and storm back out the door. By the way, the Kimber is loaded with Ranger SXT hollowpoints. I wasn't thinking of that at the time. I just wanted Dante dead. He's still next to the house, now trailing sweater arms that have come untied, whistling away. I stomp up behind him, turn up my MP3 player as loud as it will go to muffle the blast (it was playing "Die MF Die" by Dope, in case you want to know, great song), put the gun to the side of his head and FIRE! And send a Ranger SXT right through the wattles under his chin. At the very last second, he jerked his head up, so now I have a whistling, bleeding poop machine who's giving me the most unbelievable eyes of reproach that a dumb animal can give you. Something along the lines of, "Jesus Christ lady, how bad can you $@*# this UP?" Gun goes to the BACK of his head, I fire again, head explodes in a satisfactory fashion, and the whistling poop machine flops around a bit. Unfortunately, my son didn't stay inside so he got to see that part, didn't faze him much (he'd seen chickens butchered and such). I figure if I've done this much work, I can take him apart for the dogs, or something, so I commence to drag him over to the hose pipe (30 feet away) to wash off some of the gallons of poop that were flying around. On the way, I pull off the now completely-destroyed sweater. I wash him down a bit, give it up as a bad job, drag him toward the garage, and remember in some dim way that you're supposed to hang game after you kill it. So I loop some rope over the hanging beam in the garage, loop the other part around his feet, pull... ...and nothing happens. I pull again, he doesn't move, and nothing happens. ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?!? Even in death this MFer is defying me. He has now engaged his Dead Turkey Tractor Beam. Not one to be defied easily, I loop one end of rope to the tow hitch of my truck. I figure it's a Dodge Ram Hemi, if that can't get him over the beam, then God is telling me something and I should listen. I start the truck, move forward, and inch by inch, Dante drags along the floor - leaving a mud, poop and blood trail - and then slowly up into the air. He's hanging there, I go get the Henckels, and now I'm confronted by stinky, still-crap-covered, wet, dirty, DEAD turkey who instead of at waist level is now at EYE level, and whatever reserves I have to deal with this entire situation become depleted. I figure hubby can deal with him, so I tie off the rope, roll down the garage door, and head down into town with the kids. Did I mention this was late February? An hour or two later, I get a call from hubby who is wanting to know what a crap-and-mud covered, dead, frozen solid turkey is doing hanging upside down in his garage. I tell him that if he wants the turkey for food or for the dogs, HE can dice it up, as I've most certainly done my part. He declines, because defrosting this lump of frozen yuck is more than either of us can deal with, so off Dante goes to his ignominious final glory in the woods to be food for the bears. Thus ended my illustrious career as a turkey butcherer, and any time someone mentions getting turkeys, I tell them DON'T. I also have used this tale to regale some of hubby's higher-ups at the company, as well as a number of his company's clients.