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Once my owner was out late, and he accidently dropped a bottle of liquid into the grain bowl, and I slurped it all up, thinking it was some sort of medicine. But a few minutes later I felt very carefree. I finally realized that I drank liquor. Then I went over to the other turkeys and we brawled for over one hour. The next day the turkeys were bawling me out for acting big with them. Then I went to the eating area and ate so hungrily.
A few days later my buddy got shot. He was being "harvested," as they say. This was the time of the year for us to be killed. I was glad I didn't have what it took to be killed. I was a very unhealthy turkey.
Every year my buddies get killed, and I always think, "I could have been there too!" When you're a turkey, you either live a cheap life, like me, with bad characteristics, even ugly looking, or you live a short life, which is sad because you can end up on a dinner table at a party. I've chosen to live a rough life and I want to die in a turkey fight. My type of life is more interesting and exciting. Before I die I want to feel the urge to kill, the desire for victory, and the pressure of my buddies cheering me on. I don't want to die quietly and be eaten.
Being killed that way is pathetic, and only the best turkeys with beautiful feathers and rich meat die with this sadness and grief. I want my death to be inside this fence, where I cry with victory or die with defeat!
Marshall
Cultural Atlas
