The Mean, Old Turkey of Turkeytown
There was a wild turkey in the middle of the road. And this turkey, it seemed, was in no hurry to go anywhere.
Had it been the size of a normal turkey, I would have just honked, or gotten out of the car and shooed it away. But this was not a normal turkey. This was a ginormous turkey. This was a turkey on poultry steroids... switched at birth with an ostrich egg and raised to think it was a turkey. It was Turzilla.
And Turzilla was mean. As I inched my car forward, he bobbed his head, gobbled angrily at me and stood in defiance. Then he ran at my car and pecked at my bumper. When I tried to pull off to the side, he paced me.
Even though my car outweighed him by a couple thousand pounds or so, I didn't want another roadkill notch on my belt, so I waited. And he waited. It was a car-turkey standoff.
While I idled, cursing the turkey and trying to figure out what to do, the woman who lived in the house next to this scene walked out to the curb. I rolled down my window.
"Is this your turkey?" I yelled to her in jest.
She laughed. "Isn't that something?" she remarked. I wasn't sure if she was commenting on the size of the uber-turkey or the fact that he had declared the middle of the street "Turkeytown," and himself the king.
"He's been here all day," she continued.
"Well, I guess he has nothing better to do than play in traffic and bully large SUVs," I said.
Since she was not stuck in a car behind the turkey behemoth, she felt free to stand and admire the giant fowl from afar. I, however, was not as appreciative. I was late for a doctor appointment, and I couldn't figure out whether I should contact the ASPCA and have the turkey captured or call AAA and have the turkey towed. All I did know was that I was stuck in my car for 10 minutes behind this bird, and I was the one who was starting to feel like a turkey.