Scruffow’s Turkey Farm: no pardon here, Part two

English: a male and female domestic turkey

English: a male and female domestic turkey (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Scruffow’s Turkey Farm: no pardon here

Part two

“But your group is part of a private flock or operation used to increase Scruffow’s own profits and productivity. He has his own butcher, cutting out the middleman. By appearing to raise a higher grade species with the quality vitamin rich feed, Scruffow intends on increasing his private stock. If he keeps up with consumer demands in a private market, he makes a sizable profit. He doesn’t want to alert the FDA with his scam.”

“You and your friends belong to a select group. You’re all going to be at the ugly end of a turkey whacker unless you get out of here.  Now Scruffow isn’t going to get rid of Gerta right away. She’s too important to his breeding stock. But dimwitted Buff there might be the Mrs. choice for holiday dinner, or for someone who is willing to pay the price for a quote, ‘gourmet’ turkey of premium grade selection, top choice. Whatever he labels you, no one will know that you’re really like all those sorry birds down the road selling like a two for one super special at the local grocery. And once Scruffow has reached a marginal number in stock, the ….well, the silencing starts and off goes your…” Squawk imitated his knife hacking gesture again.

“And there’s the bird flu virus too that might keep the turkeys off the dinner table…you know, with people not buying them cause of the infected birds…”

“Squawk, what if we…” Strut’s brain was on overload now.

Strut relayed the news to his friends and they worked on a plan of escape. As if thinking of the horrid probabilities was not enough, there hanging in the turkey hutch above their heads were the deadly tools of Scruffow’s trade and terror. An ax and a hatchet.

As Scruffow came into the turkey hutch to refill their feed trough with the gourmet feed he noticed how fast they were eating the stuff. He chuckled. The feed was actually just a mixture with other livestock feed, looking and tasting differently.  They’re really gobbling this stuff up.  Good. They’re going to be healthy, and I’m going to be wealthy.“ Ha, ha, ha,!”

His plan was working out so well. And so easy. He was building up his flock, selling some at top dollar to private parties wanting the best in the flock and willing to pay more per pound for a ‘gourmet’ quality bird. He had one in mind for the Mrs. as well.

Sid, a hawk and old friend of Squawk’s flew in, landing on the gate to the turkey hutch. He was a huge, strong bird, and happy to be of assistance for the turkeys’ escape. With their wings clipped, they could not fly so would only be able to waddle out of their pen and away to safety with the pen gate opened. That was where Sid came in.

Squawk snatched the socks hanging from a clothesline and Gerta went to work filling them with the gourmet feed.  Then, they all went over their escape plan.

Scruffow went about his chores not noticing anything unusual.

Squawk would relish directing a good performance. It was time to start the show.

Sid came in low, screeching loudly and circling above the farmhouse. He landed on the fence post near the turkey hutch acting aggressively towards the turkeys.

Scruffow watched the erratic, crazy hawk hanging around the turkey hutch. He thought the bird’s behavior very bizarre. The hawk lunged at Buff, pecking at his neck and head.

“Caw. Caw. Good going Sid! You’ve got Scruffow’s attention.” Squawk crowed, prompting them from his watching post.

“Yea! But he doesn’t have to drill a hole clean through my brain,” hissed Buff.

“Hey numskull, your head is so hard that a woodpecker wouldn’t make a dent. This has to look good. Be convincing.” Sid said.

Strut, Sam & Gerta now entered front and center, appearing to be frightened and frenzied, afraid of the big, mean hawk. They ran around, hysterical as if they had already met with a ‘turkey whacker.’ “Gobble, gobble, gobble.” Their noise and commotion attracted attention from everyone on the farm. Even the squealing pigs. The turkeys gobbled so loud, even Mrs. Scruffow came out, ready with a broom to go after the horrid rabid hawk.

Sid flew off, finished with his role, until he was needed much later. Buff began to teeter dizzily on his skinny legs. He fell, not making a sound.

“That crazed hawk could be infected with the ‘bird flu’ virus. I will have to kill those four and quarantine the rest of the flock,” said Scruffow. “We can’t sell any of them now, or risk eating one for holiday dinner.”

“You still shooting those pigs with steroid shots?” the Mrs. asked Scruffow.

“Yea. I’m making a tidy sum off of those too, but my turkey operation will have to be put on hold for a while.”

The Scruffows watched the turkeys closely, but did not go near them. Another one was now gravely ill and fell too, lying in a still heap. Now the others were acting strange.

Late that night after Sid worked the latch loose on the gate, Strut, Sam, Buff and Gerta waddled quietly out of their pen, their socks filled with ‘gourmet’ feed.

“I’m not going to miss this place,” said Buff a bit too loudly.

“Shh! Quiet, you numskull, you’ll wake the Scruffows.” Strut led them out.

“Numskull! An appropriate name for one whose brain is denser than a hay stack.” quipped Squawk, flying point.

Sid flew back to the last remaining turkeys in the turkey farm. He had “unfinished business” to attend to. With quick precision, he went to work un-latching the gates to the pens and hutch.

Soon after, another flock of turkeys could be seen marching down the road behind him gobbling a happy tune to their freedom. “Gobble, gobble, gobble.”

Weeks later when Strut, Sam, Buff and Gerta  were safely ensconced at their new home on a quiet turkey preserve, Squawk reported the latest news to them.

“The Scruffows came down with the flu after the holiday. They had ham for dinner.”



Joyce E. Johnson © 2013

Posted November 28, 2013 by Joyce in Fiction

Tagged with , , , ,

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