By Timothy T. Tater, Editor and Chief Spud
The Sweet Potato
Roger and Henrietta had been cellmates at the Possum Trot Farm and Dairy for exactly eight months when Roger first noticed the calendar in Farmer Jim’s office window.
“Henri,” he whispered, pressing his wattles against the chicken wire. “Do you know what Thursday is?”
Henrietta was preening her feathers, a nervous habit she’d developed lately. “Thursday? Isn’t that just… another day?”
“It’s Thanksgiving, Henri. The Big Day. The Final Gobble.” Roger’s eyes went wide with panic. “I heard Farmer Jim telling his wife we’re ‘perfect size’ now. PERFECT SIZE, HENRI!”
Henrietta stopped mid-preen. Her beak fell open. “Oh no. Oh no no no. You don’t think he meant—”
“Of course that’s what he meant! What did you think ‘fattening us up’ was about? A COMPLIMENT?”
They stared at each other in horrified silence, broken only by the distant sound of Farmer Jim sharpening something metallic in the barn.
“We have to get out,” Henrietta said firmly. “Tonight.”
By midnight, they had assembled what Roger generously called “The Plan” and what Henrietta more accurately called “several terrible ideas stapled together.”
“Okay,” Roger whispered, scratching diagrams in the dirt with his claw. “Phase One: I’ll do my impression of a dying turkey to lure Farmer Jim in—”
“You mean just lying there and making sad noises? That’s not an impression, Roger, that’s just depressing.”
“—and when he opens the gate, YOU rush past him—”
“I’m seventeen pounds, Roger. I don’t rush anywhere. I waddle with moderate urgency at best.”
“FINE. You waddle past him with purpose, and then we meet at the fence by the compost heap.”
“The fence that’s four feet tall?”
“Yes.”
“Roger, we’re turkeys. We can barely clear a speed bump.”
Roger drew himself up indignantly. “I’ll have you know my great-grandfather was a wild turkey who could fly over—”
“Your great-grandfather was a Butterball named Kevin.”
Phase One went surprisingly well, mostly because Farmer Jim had eaten a large dinner and moved like a man underwater. Roger’s “dying turkey” performance was so convincing that Jim actually said “Aw, shoot,” and rushed to call the vet before noticing the gate was unlatched.
By then, Roger and Henrietta were already waddling across the moonlit yard at a blistering 0.3 miles per hour.
“Faster!” Roger hissed.
“I’m TRYING! These legs weren’t designed for prison breaks! They were designed for standing around looking delicious!”
They reached the fence. Roger looked up at it the way someone might look at Mount Everest.
“Okay, you know what?” Henrietta said, breathing heavily. “New plan. We dig under.”
“With what? Our beaks?”
“You got a better idea, Einstein?”
They started digging. It was pathetic. Mostly they just moved dirt from one side of their feet to the other while making aggressive scratching sounds.
That’s when they heard the jingle of keys and Farmer Jim’s voice calling, “Here, turkey turkey turkey!”
“He thinks we’re cats!” Roger gasped.
“JUST DIG!”
In their panic, they both dug with such frenzied determination that they actually managed to create a small depression under the fence—just big enough for two terrified turkeys to squeeze through like fuzzy toothpaste.
They emerged on the other side covered in dirt, panting, and technically free.
“We did it,” Henrietta whispered in awe. “WE ACTUALLY DID IT!”
“Of course we did!” Roger puffed out his chest. “Never doubted us for a second. Now we just need to—”
He was cut off by the sudden appearance of a fox, who had been watching this entire operation with the fascinated attention of someone watching reality television.
“Well, well,” said the fox. “What do we have here? Thanksgiving dinner… delivering itself?”
Roger and Henrietta looked at each other, then back at the fox, then at the fence behind them where Farmer Jim was still calling “Here turkey turkey turkey!”
“You know what?” Henrietta said. “Farmer Jim’s wife makes excellent stuffing.”
“The cranberry sauce is homemade,” Roger added.
“There’s pie.”
“SO MUCH PIE.”
They turned around and started squeezing back under the fence.
The fox watched them go, utterly baffled. “Wait, what are you—where are you—”
“BACK TO JAIL!” Roger yelled cheerfully. “At least Jim kills you quick! You’d probably play with us first!”
“And honestly,” Henrietta called over her shoulder, “the retirement plan is terrible out here!”
They waddled back into their pen just as Farmer Jim rounded the corner. He looked at them, looked at the open gate, looked at the dirt under the fence, and shook his head.
“Turkeys,” he muttered, latching the gate. “Dumbest birds on the planet.”
Roger and Henrietta settled back into their corner, covered in dirt and utterly exhausted.
“So,” Henrietta said after a long pause. “Same time next year?”
“If we make it to next year,” Roger replied.
They didn’t talk about the fact that Farmer Jim had started hanging a “Farm Tours – Book Your Easter Ham Now!” sign on the barn.
Some knowledge, they both agreed, was better left until after Thursday.
As of note, I am also concerned about some of my relatives as well on this upcoming day that celebrates the Pilgrims. So, please remind Auntie that you are allergic to sweet potatoes now…URGENT…right now! Ask for INSTANT MASHED POTATOES! -TTT
