Gobble, Gobble

Dr. Moo came to visit this weekend. We walked a fair amount Saturday, from my place in Somerville out to Harvard Square, and then we roamed the fancy neighborhoods of Cambridge as we meandered our way back. She shared some new stories with me, some of which are too disgusting even to mention. But this one isn't:

Dr. Moo was out on a run when she saw some clumps of feathers off by the side of the road. Further along, she saw a turkey that was sort of shuffling along, all lopsided. It was missing chunks of itself, and had a big gash in its head. Something had beaten the crap out of it, apparently. Dr. Moo inspected the bird from a safe distance and decided that it was probably not going to live. So she went back to her apartment and called a friend and asked her how to euthanize a bird. The friend recommended stabbing a needle with (I think) sodium pentathol in the bird's heart. Dr. Moo grabbed a needle and some meds out of the vet truck, and then headed out to find the turkey. She was able to catch the turkey relatively easily; it was, she said, neurologically damaged. It made a kind of croaky sound when she picked it up. She injected it with the sodium pentathol and it died peacefully. Then she tossed the turkey into the woods.

When she told this story to her fellow cow vets, they were pissed. Why the hell hadn't she eaten the turkey, they asked? Apparently what she should have done was to swing it around by its head to break its neck, then bring it home and roast it in the oven.

Also there was the off chance that some dumb redneck would pick the sodium pentatholated turkey up off the side of the road, take it home, eat it, and then die a dumb redneck death.

I think Dr. Moo did the right thing. I came upon a baby turkey laying in the middle of the road, peeping when I was running one day. Cars kept running over it. I picked the little guy up and carried him back to my parents' house; he died in my hands. I didn't feel so bad because at least he didn't die alone.