Blaise Pascal was right when he said that all man’s problems stem from his inability to sit alone in a room. Had I not strayed from my desk this morning to get a closer look at some baby turkeys near the fig tree, I wouldn’t be in such anguish now.
Imagine a kind nature-loving man sauntering about his beloved garden, very thoughtfully (mind you) eating a banana while attempting to do nothing more than glimpse some pretty little chicks, mindfully (mind you) keeping what he believes to be a respectful distance from the brood…when all of a sudden a massive mother turkey takes flight and soars with scary sharp talons extended toward (and taking aim at) the eyes of the gentle human as he tumbles back in retreat, involuntarily emitting an unmanly shriek(!), simultaneously scraping his left elbow as he collapses and hits his head on something blunt. Even pacifists must at times defend themselves. He grasps at a rock, a twig, a leaf!—anything to hurl in hopes of halting the gigantic bird as she makes three separate sorties, each more violent and relentless than the first. The man in his underwear (Please don’t let me be found like this!) tries to create a wider berth as he worms backwards into what is sure to be a patch off . . . poison ivy.
The siege finally/mercifully ends, and I (woodsman, landholder, but in the end a mere human) struggle to stand. I’ve got a hurt shoulder and my back muscles have seized. My entire torso throbs in pain, and this doesn’t take into account the itching that is sure to start any second, for I am equal parts psychosomatic and fool. As for the banana, I’ve no idea where it went. I vaguely recall throwing it at my feathered foe in feeble defense-- which may have only entertained her. Having squandered my snack, I’m still hungry, but at the moment I crave protein more than potassium. When, I wonder, does turkey season begin? I’m no hunter, but whenever it is, I vow to have my cast iron ready.