one plump bird and one death by natural causes

That’s Jack.

Least, that was Jack until a couple days ago, ‘fore he wound up headless and plucked and stripped of all his turkey-ish dignity.

I know I’m not the first kid to consider being a herbivore round ’bout the time I made the connection between what struts around our property all puffed up and proud eleven months out of the year, and what ends up on the platter on Thanksgiving Day. Ben tells me I need to stop namin’ all the birds, but I don’t see where that would make any difference at all. If I didn’t have a name, would he be eatin’ me for dinner?

You might suppose that my first conversation of a spiritual sort with Pastor JT would have something to do  with gettin’ through the pearly gates or making some improvements to my moral character. You would be wrong. Me and Pilot and Wilbur hiked all the way over to the church this past Wednesday morning to talk with Pastor JT about a turkey. I told it to him just like that, too. He saw us comin’ up the road, me and my dog and my goat, and he called out from the church steps, “Well, good morning, Miss Tevis! What can I do for you and your friends today?” And I told him, real serious-like, “Sir, we need to talk with you about a turkey.”

Well Pilot figured since he was included in the greeting he’d go ahead and fill the pastor in on our troubles. That dog forgets sometimes not everyone converses in barks and whines, on account of he’s used to me always knowing what he’s gettin’ at. Between the two of us though, we managed to get our point across and were rewarded for our efforts with a scripture and a suggestion.

The scripture was about how God gave man dominion over the earth. And the suggestion was this:

“Thanksgiving is a time to count our blessings, Tevis. Thank the Lord for providing you with a home, a family, and provisions for each day.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. If I was 57 years old and wise, might be I’d gather some useful stuff out of his words. But I’m just 13, and all I heard was a whole lot of dodging the issue. Here’s something I do know. There was no turkey eatin’ going on in the Garden of Eden.

I don’t mind tellin’ you I think that pastor just wanted to be rid of us right quick, ‘fore we laid somethin’ on his conscience that might creep up Thanksgiving day just as he was set to take a tasty bite of bird smothered in gravy.

Left with no other choice, I had to take this problem to the Lord, and you know how anxious that makes me. Well, I came away from that time of talkin’ with God with a fine proposal for Ben, and I took it to him right away. If Jack died of natural causes before Thanksgiving day, I said, then we’d enjoy a right fine turkey dinner. If not, well, then, we’d just have to make do with our potatoes and yams and greens. I don’t mind tellin’ you I was surprised when Ben agreed to my proposal. I suspect that had more to do with him trustin’ in the Lord than thinkin’ I’d come up with a good idea.

We heard the coyotes and their “yip-yip-yaroo!” in the night and when the goats started bleatin’ (‘cept Wilbur of course, who was sleepin’ just fine at the foot of my bed) and the birds started squawkin’, Ben ran outside and fired a shot in the air. He was too late for Jack, though, who we found next morning halfway ‘cross the yard from the pen, where the coyotes must’ve left him when the shotgun scared ‘em off.

I’ll tell you what. No one, nowhere needs to spend any time convincing me we live in a fallen world. I’ll tell you what else. One day I’ll be in a place where we won’t be eatin’ any turkeys, death by natural causes or not.

But today the best I can do is give Jack a decent burial. (What’s left of him, that is, after we have our fill of supper.)