Carefully padding through the leaves, he saw nothing but a blanket of orange and brown over the forest floor.
The rifle in his left hand hung like a pendulum. His hand, slippery with sweat, struggled to hold on.
Clish-clash. Clish-clash.
The leaves spoke too loudly.
The snow shoes probably didn’t help.
It was 63 degrees. Why was he wearing snow shoes?
The orange leaves glowed where sunlight hit them.
In the distance, a lump of brown.
He shuffled his snow shoes as fast as he could.
Clish-clash-clish-clash-clish-clash.
He didn’t have to look, he knew it was Sammy.
Curse the broken fence. Why hadn’t he fixed it?
Why hadn’t he checked on Sammy before he went to bed last night?
He accused himself.
He blamed himself.
He spent the next hour erecting a cross and carving out a crude tombstone from a Taco Bell receipt and two drinking straws.
“Here lies Sammy, my pet turkey.”
He could still hear Sammy’s gobble.
Picking up Sammy by his limp feet, he slung the bird over his shoulder.
Clish-clash. Clish-clash.
“Well,” he thought, “at least we’ll eat well this Thanksgiving.”
He could almost smell the roasting turkey, as he shuffled back to the house.
© November 22, 2006
