(Original photo stolen from Steven Pinker)

Sparky screamed as I stepped out through the kitchen door. I hesitated on the step a moment to hear her excited explanation: "There's a TURKEY on the lawn!" I closed the door behind me and headed for my car. Sure there's a turkey on the lawn, I thought. We don't have wild turkeys near the house, and if we did, why would one brave the neighbor's yappy dogs to walk onto our lawn for no gain? That's crazy. We do have turkeys around here, but they stay in the pasture, out of sight up against the berry bushes. I've seen turkeys on the ranch only two times, ever.

Two more steps and I saw the turkey.

It was tall. Did you know that turkeys were tall? I didn't know they were tall. This one could have ridden any ride at Disneyland that he wanted to ride, as long as he kept his wings inside the car at all times, ba-dump bump. This one would have had to stand in the BACK row for Smedley's second grade class photo. This one would have made me nervous in a dark alley, so I readied my arsenal of turkey-fighting words: cranberries, gravy, mashed potatoes, green been casserole, and, of course, STUFFING. Them's fightin' words.

The turkey was not looking for a fight, and he moved on, nervously. Of course my camera was in the house; I watched him closely since I couldn't photograph him as he made giant strides away from the house. I followed slowly, only to watch. He, being bird of extremely small brain, ran crazily in a zig-zag pattern, back and forth across the road and then wildly veered onto the dairy driveway and behind a manger, out of sight. I let him go.

I drove to work dreaming of Thanksgiving.