Nov. 20, 2017
It’s that dreaded time of year again. I know this because of the nasty, cold weather, and also because the idiot humans have been starving themselves so they can stuff more stuffing down their throats. I mean seriously, do they think I don’t notice them eating salad? I’ve never seen them eat anything green before, not even when it’s drowning in that gross goopy ranch, like it has been the past three nights. Do they really think that’s a diet?
Anyway, I was trying to explain this problem to Bill. This is Bill’s first year on the farm, along with most of these other gobbling goons. Trying to explain imminent death to Bill is like explaining calculus to a toddler turkey. Bill isn’t much of a nihilist, which is what it takes to survive in these parts. By these parts, I mean a “free-range” farm that raises birds to the ripe old age of 6 months before turning them into lunch meat. For the past three years, I’ve escaped this fate because I’m the only one around who knows what’s really going on. Bill and the rest of them think they’re going to dinner. Where the hell do they think our friends scamper off to afterward? Bird heaven? Boarding school? I’ve had this same conversation at least 20 times since I became self-aware, and it was already old after about the first three:
“The people invited me to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Bill, you’re gonna get your fucking head chopped off, man.”
“Nonsense. It’s dinner, George.”
“What do you think humans eat, exactly?”
“Dunno, pizza? Cows?”
“Okay sure, but it’s November. I’ve explained this to you before.”
“George, your conspiracy theories mean nothing to me. If you really think that humans convene each year to eat turkeys, and only turkeys, in some bizarre religious ritual, you’re a wack job. You’re crazy.”
“Whatever you say, man. Good luck to you.”
And then Bill, John, April, Amanda and all the rest of my nimwit friends go to dinner while I hide out behind the hay bales in the attic, quiet as a barn mouse, which, incidentally, are all afraid of me. I’m starting to think I should just succumb to my natural November fate, because it’s getting old watching all my friends being passed around on a dinner plate. If you’re reading this, I’ve accepted my fate.
Danielle Schwartz is a senior studying English and professional writing. When she’s not writing or taking pictures of her dog, you can usually find her eating a veggie burger or drinking Irish Breakfast tea. Check out her dog pics on Instagram at @danielleeilleen.