Why I Hate Turkeys

Friends have been plastering photos of themselves on Facebook grinning wildly while hoisting or kneeling beside a large, dead turkey. I’m happy for them. Really, I am.

I have tried repeatedly to bag a turkey this year and what I have to show for my efforts amount to little more than a nasty cut on my left leg (barbwire), an errant collection of tick bites and repeated mistakes that have sent birds scurrying. Although I have yet to fire a shell at live bird I have not been without my chances.

The latest blunder happened this morning. I won’t bore you with details except to say there is a time to call and a time to sit quietly and I apparently have yet to learn when to do what.

Turkeys have a walnut size brain. I’m glad it isn’t the size of an orange. I’d never see one.

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