by BobA. Troutt
*****
Leftover from the Holidays
The Thanksgiving Blues
“Gobble, gobble, gobble,” cried the turkeys at K.B. Butterball’s Turkey Farm. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” they cried all day long.
K.B. Butterball’s Turkey Farm was one of the biggest around, especially in Turkey Creek. Turkey Creek was a little community nestled between Fence Row Lane and Turkey Trot Road. K.B. had hundreds of turkeys of all sizes, colors and plenty of gobbles. K.B. was getting the turkeys plump for Thanksgiving; their gobbles were already good and strong. It wouldn’t be long before the Annual Community Thanksgiving Feast. People came from miles around to attend K.B.’s turkey feast. This year he was expecting twice the amount of people he had last year. Everything was lovely around Turkey Creek.
Everything was rolling along pretty good until one day, out of the clear blue sky, something unexplainable happened. The turkeys became sick; they quit eating, lost weight, lost their feathers and their gobbles were weak.
“Why did this happen?” cried K.B. “What am I going to do? They look so depressed, so down and out and so worried.”
As he stood there scratching his head, O.M. Jive Turkey walked up. He had a long face and his eyes were swollen and set back in his head.
“What is it, O.M.?’ asked K.B. “What’s wrong?”
O.M. was so depressed he could hardly talk or hold his head up.
“I don’t know,” mumbled O.M. “I just feel so sad.”
“But, but, but, what about my feast!” yelled K.B. “I can’t have a Thanksgiving feast with a bunch of sick birds.”
“Oh me, oh my,” cried O.M. “What am I going to do?” he asked as he started to cry.
“Don’t cry, O.M.,” replied K.B. “Cheer up; it’s not as bad as you think.”
“What am I going to do?” he asked. “Where will I turn?”
All the turkeys started crying. There was no more gobble, gobble, gobble. It was all boo hoo, boo hoo, boo hoo, boo hoo. K.B. didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, he got an idea.
“Come on, turkeys, we are going to see the doctor.”
Quickly, K.B. loaded the sick turkeys onto his truck and headed to the doctor. K.B. zoomed down the road. He was scared he would lose his birds and wouldn’t be able to have his annual turkey feast. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the doctor’s office. Hurriedly, he unloaded them and lined them up at the nurse’s desk.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Why, yes, yes indeed. My birds need to see the doctor,” he exclaimed.
When she looked up at them, she saw that their faces were about as long as their necks. She heard a faint gobble; a sniffle and a held back boo hoo.
“You see,” cried K.B. “These birds need to see the doctor immediately.”
“Yep, you have some sick looking birds,” she replied. “Yep, pretty sick birds. Okay, take a seat and fill out these papers. I’ll call you when the doctor is ready to see ya’ll.”
K.B. and the birds went over and sat down. As he filled out the papers, the moans, groans, sniffles and oh me’s could be heard all over the waiting room.
Out of the blue, one cried, “What am I going to do?”
As time passed, the more depressed they got. K.B. checked with the nurse, from time to time, to see how long it would be before they could see the doctor. He began to get worried and sad himself. He thought it would be too late by the time they got to see the doctor.
As the turkeys sat around the room, all down and out, one looked up at K.B. and asked, “Can’t we just go home and come back some other time?”
Just when he was about to answer, the door opened.
“Dr. Stalnaker Spicuzza Goosle will see you now,” announced the nurse.
O.M. stood slowly to his feet and headed for the door. He told the birds to wait patiently for their turn to see the doctor.
“Come in, my friend,” said Dr. Goosle. “Come on over here and lie on the couch. Make yourself comfortable.”
Carefully, O.M. eased over to the couch and stretched out. Dr. Goosle sat back in his chair and looked at him over his glasses.
“Well, well, well,” said Dr. Goosle, “what seems to be the problem?”
“I don’t know,” replied O.M. “I am so depressed and sad; I feel like I can’t make it. I can’t eat and I’ve lost weight. I’m also losing my feathers and all I want to do is sleep.”
“Uh, huh,” replied the doctor. “And how long has this been going on?”
“For the last few weeks,” answered O.M. “It just came on suddenly without any warning.”
“I see,” said the doctor.
The doctor checked his calendar and saw that Thanksgiving was only a week away. He thought about all of O.M.’s symptoms, but he wanted to question him some more. I’ve seen this before, he thought.
“Tell me more, O.M.,” said Dr. Goosle.
“Well, doctor,” moaned O.M. “I’m so sad and down and out. When I was growing up, I was so paranoid. I always felt like someone was out to get me. I feel like my life is in danger and I’m afraid to stick my neck out.”
“Let me check something, O.M.,” replied the doc.
“Why, yes, it is weak,” replied Dr. Goosle as he checked O.M.’s gobble. “Oh my, oh my, not too good,” replied Dr. Goosle when he checked his goosle. “Oh no,” he said as he leaned back and shook his head after he checked his giblets.
“What is it, doctor? What is it?” O.M. cried.
“Now, now, now,” replied Dr. Goosle, “just calm down and tell me some more about what’s bothering you.”
“Well, doctor, I have this recurring dream about losing all my feathers and being naked in front of a bunch of strangers. I mean, I can’t understand why I couldn’t have been a chicken, a pig or a cow. Why did I have to be a turkey? They don’t have a holiday for chickens, pigs or cows. There’s Groundhog Day though. And let me ask you another thing,” said O.M. “Why do they call it Thanksgiving anyway? How thankful do you think it is for me to have my feathers plucked and for me to be laid out on a platter? What have I to be thankful for?”
“I see,” replied Dr. Goosle. “Go on.”
“You don’t know how it is out there in the real world, doctor; it’s a jungle. Why, some of my friends have already flown the coop and others have already jumped the fence. What am I to do?” he yelled as he broke down in tears, crying.
Dr. Goosle pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to O.M. He took it and patted his eyes gently with it.
“What am I going to do? Where am I to turn? Tell me, doctor, what is wrong with me,” he cried.
Old Dr. Goosle slowly eased back in his chair and thought for a few minutes.
“After hearing all of your symptoms and feelings, I have a diagnosis for you,” he said.
“What is it, doctor? What do I have?” cried O.M. “Will I live doctor? Will I get better? Oh, no, I’m going to die. Ayieee!”
“Calm down, O.M. You’re not going to die. What you have is nothing more than Thanksgiving blues!” exclaimed Dr. Goosle.
“Thanksgiving blues!” yelled O.M. “What’s that? What’s that, Dr. Goosle?”
“Well, it is right common with turkeys and overeaters on Thanksgiving. The symptoms are giblet fever, yam sniffles, stopped up stuffing, pumpkin pie orange skin color and cranberry red eyes,” said Dr. Goosle. “Next week, I want you to do thirty turkey squats, eat plenty of turkey noodle soup, stay in bed and drink plenty of fluids.”
“Will I be well then?” asked O.M.
“Yes, I believe that will do it. You’ll be a wild turkey again with a loud and strong gobble, gobble, gobble.”
“This is the best Thanksgiving blessing I have ever had,” said O.M.
One by one, all the birds talked to Dr. Goosle. Each one came out feeling better. All that week the birds did as Dr. Goosle instructed. By the time Thanksgiving got there, they were al
l up and running.
As everyone came from miles around to eat K.B.’s Annual Community Thanksgiving Feast, O.M. and all his friends sat at the table. K.B. served them smoked pheasant on the glass with dressing, gravy, sauce and veggies.
“Gobble, gobble, gobble,” went O.M. and his friends.
