"You Are Not Alone Out There..." A Barnyard Dialogue

“You Are Not Alone Out There….”
A Barnyard Dialogue


Last night I dreamed I was a turkey named Tom…it was a nightmare.

From whence cometh such visions of horror but from a glut of the fruit of the vine or the dredging up of seething subconscious offal from another time, or life—Yikes, was I once a Hindu? Scary!

Perhaps I had not reconciled the time when, while jogging on a Thanksgiving morning on a country road, some near-sighted Dick Cheney type mistook me for a turkey and loaded me up with # 6 birdshot. Whatever.

In a few days we will all gather with family and friends and gobble through that annual ritual of overeating called Thanksgiving. It’s a 9/11 event in the lives of unsuspecting turkeys, a day that will live in infamy for millions of steroid-stuffed birds that have, co-incidentally, literally been eating farmers out of house and home for weeks. Turnabout is fair play!

I doubt if a gobbler’s attitude is assuaged much by hearing Flintstone the Farmer justify the situation by saying, “Tom, you are not alone.” Surely it would ring hollow, a cruel, mocking slur, even to a bird, and in no way endear Flintstone to his flock. Besides, the axe hanging over the chopping block cast a malevolent shadow as a constant reminder to the birds that something ominous could happen at any time.

The barnyard dialogue that ensued might have gone somewhat as follows:

Tom: “Say, Flintstone, I’m a little confused—why have you been feasting us for months now…what’s the deal?”

Flintstone: “Tom, you are a Royal Bird, bred to be King of the Table, and one day you will lie in state there.” (Flintstone, a bird-psychology major at Auburn University, was head of the turkey debating team and had earned many awards against turkeys…Clearly, Tom was no match for him.)

But Tom, apparently sensing the gravity of the situation, did his best to counter the claims of Flintstone. “Do I have a choice in this matter…can we negotiate?” Tom gobbled.

“Look, Tom”, said Flintstone, “you’ve been gouging yourself for months on my fine Purina pellets, and you strut around the yard like you own the place…why, you have more hen admirers than you deserve, all because of my generosity. It’s time for a payback, Pal.”

“But must it be so severe, what with the bludgeoning of the axe and the embarrassment of the ritual?” Tom cackled.

“Tom,” Flintstone retorted, “you fat, feathered ingrate, consider the luxurious lifestyle you’ve enjoyed for so long…look, there’s a quid pro quo for everything.”

Revolution circulated in the barnyard air as Tom drew a vocal and sympathetic crowd with his logic---anarchy seemed inevitable, and anarchy in the barnyard is never a good thing. Flintstone slipped the noose over Tom’s neck as he led him to the block. Raising the axe high, with one mighty downward thrust the axe fell, glistening in the sunlight as it sliced through the air towards the supple, outstretched neck.

Instantly my eyes opened, the dream ended. Suddenly I was no longer a turkey, about to be beheaded, but myself again. Whew…dodged death again. I must have fallen asleep reading the Wall Street Journal, because when my eyes opened I saw these familiar headlines again: Dow Tanks, $9 Trillion of Wealth up in Smoke, GM Begs for Bailout, $700 Billion a Drop in the Bucket and Investors Beheaded by Fraud.

It’s dangerous being a turkey these days, even an investor-turkey. I don’t advise it. And there’s scant comfort in being told, “You are not alone out there.” In the tradition of Thanksgiving, it is good to know that we can put aside some things for the greater purpose of reunification, even if it’s just for a day, and thank God we are not alone out there…never have been, never will be.

As you prepare for the holiday, remember one important thing: Never dream about turkeys at Thanksgiving!

Bud
November 20, 2008