Crazy Dirk’s Turkey Manifesto

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For years, I’ve been telling the world about my love of turkeys. They frolick so freely in the sun and slurp worms into their juicy gullets. They’re not like other birds, with silly, disposable lives and yet I’ve often felt guilty for being a big fan of the turkey. I’m a rancher. It’s not in my genetic makeup to raise non-native, unwanted creatures. 

I’ve already tried canning them. It’s not happening again. This was, no doubt, part of my argument in favor of converting to veganism. I loved my turkeys so much I could’ve ended my life in a state of happy ecstasy. If I could only eat them for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t have to face the real, or perceived, guilt of eating pigs and cows. Or soy. Or eggs. (The reasons why I became a vegan are irrelevant. They’re now gone. From me, at least. I’ve eaten meat, cows, pigs, chickens, and eggs since that night in 1991 and feel no guilt. None. Like I said, I’m vegan.)

Now I’m not so sure. There’s a small, pungent, segment of the vegan world that seems to think I’m a filthy, disgusting vegan, and I’m about to smash that group into smithereens.

Turkeys are my kryptonite.

My love of turkey began on a crisp November evening. My wife and I were visiting her parents for the weekend, and I pulled up a farm site on the Internet to look at the sunset. The pictures were almost too beautiful to describe. The huge, fat birds stood in a large group, like a school of salmon entering the surf to spawn. They stretched their long legs in the air, looked at each other, and dove like rabid pigs at the water’s edge. It was gorgeous. The photo op was too perfect. I could’ve licked the screen and pecked a few pixels and never looked back.

There’s something inherently peaceful about a group of free-range, free-roaming birds. Even the pungent, horsey odor was seductive. I’d be lying if I said the thought of eating turkey never crossed my mind. In the heart of a crowded, urban city, I’d find myself at a roadside butcher, preparing to plunk down a wad of cash for a delicacy. (I know this because I was in one of these situations exactly once and thought about it. It was a dark, lonely day and I thought, I’m in this butcher shop and all the stuff I’ve read about where to get the best food on this continent and all I can think is that these guys have to kill things to kill things and it’s gross and I’m never doing this again.)

As I stared at the turkeys from the comfort of my computer screen, I immediately liked them. I liked them so much that I nearly stopped reading the text and opened up a window to dial my number. “Hi honey. I’m sorry I’m being such a dud. Can you pick up some turkeys on the way home? I want to become a vegetarian,” I’d say. I still hope to save the world, even if it’s in the most minute of amounts. That said, I don’t think it’s reasonable to expect the rest of the world to do so. Veganism is as “normal” as owning a Prius or owning an Air Fryer. But for me, it’s going to be really hard.

I like meat, and I like turkeys. Sure, there are very few truly evil, bad turkeys. They breed in feces and pee all over themselves. They have huge breasts and try to assault other birds in the flock. They are flamboyant drunks, gorging themselves until their guts explode in a grotesquely unattractive manner. In fact, it’s kind of a frat boy dream come true. However, I cannot condone slaughtering turkeys, period. And I can’t believe that nearly two-thirds of the nation believes I should be allowed to do so.

I understand that eating meat is as American as baseball and apple pie, but I don’t like being such a huge hypocrite. I grew up in the ‘80s, when the video of pigs flying over a farm and drowning while trying to escape drowning in their own feces had just hit the media. We were the “Humane Society” nation. We tried to ride the wave of moral rectitude to do what was right and be a good animal-loving people. But we failed. The realization that America’s children consume four times as much meat and dairy products as the global average.

So it’s bizarre and incredible that a member

 of my new “family” has made me so nostalgic for what I’m giving up. As usual, Turkeys have always been a little different. If you’re like me, you grew up with the line “Turkeys like to watch the sunset, too,” and wondered if there really were a bunch of sentient turkeys out there watching the sunset with you. (Or maybe not. Maybe they just eat the rainbow, and somehow they still get the best sunset.) At the end of October, the last of the family members flew to their new homes and it wasn’t long before my turkey-less life felt different. I wasn’t hunting down an end table for a gingerbread house on Amazon or enjoying a mother-in-law’s second-best stuffing recipe. I wasn’t threatening my wife’s peace with constant holiday-related texts. I wasn’t holding back laughter at this joke or that, or dragging a hesitant look to the oven for my usual fowl fate. I didn’t have to “sit in the dark in the cold.” My turkey-less life didn’t suddenly feel cold and dark. I knew why—I’d gone vegan.

Maybe the first step was accepting that my love of turkeys is truly something unique. If you’ve been vegan for awhile, this probably sounds like an awfully long time to love something you’ve loved for so long. This is my path, though, and it’s not like I’ve somehow forsaken my love for bacon or eggplant parm. It’s a love of meat that goes beyond hormones and antibiotics and things that I can’t name. What’s special about the turkey is that it’s the only animal I’ve ever met that’s so much like me. I like to laugh at them and make fun of their broken beaks. I enjoy their high-pitched squawks and their silly showmanship. They look like the kind of beings who might enjoy watching Netflix in a darkened room. They’re not terribly warm. And they don’t seem to care that I’m not eating them.

Oh, and most importantly, they’re delicious. Tender with a generous dose of meat. The love that’s been in my heart for turkeys for so long is a love for a meat that’s utterly good, of a non-human animal that I could eat because it’s good. The meat of an animal that hasn’t been loved and mistreated and twisted by industrial agricultural. It feels strangely self-indulgent to eat a turkey as good as a turkey. It feels wrong to waste good food, even if the bird is one that I’ve not only known, but respected.

So I’m taking a break from celebrating. I’m going to get through the holiday season without a turkey—which isn’t that much different from celebrating without an animal rights activist around, I guess. Then I’ll start collecting new turkeys. Because while I can’t love a turkey like I love turkeys, I can love many turkeys, and I will eat a million new turkeys.

Can one marry legally marry a turkey? No? Why not? A simple question, yet one that goes unanswered. Probably because it’s a silly question. I don’t own a home, so I’ll probably buy one in the next few days. Soon, I’ll add a couple of turkeys to my growing menagerie. I’ll build my own coop out in the backyard and gather eggs and enjoy a friendly introduction to the kinds of farm life that I’m beginning to really appreciate. What I’m trying to say is, I’m back. I’m back. I’m thankful for all of my turkeys. This year, I’m thankful for my turkeys, whoever they may be.

With a turkey feather boa around my neck, I want to think that I’m a dignified vegan, but the truth is, I’m way too happy about the fact that I’m not eating any animals. By the time I’m safely back in my home and my personal hell is behind me, I’ll probably be eaten by my cats and I will have proved that I don’t need any sort of system to feel content in my love for turkeys.

That’s enough for me.

If society could accept my love for turkeys, 

it would be hard for me not to love the chickens that I cook. I can picture them clucking and running around my kitchen, hoping that the food I’m making is the Thanksgiving leftovers I set aside for them. I can picture the kind of singing that turkeys do in the morning as the sun rises and they prepare for a day of combing and caring for their babies. I can see them bringing their chickadees, ducks, and geese their favorite treats. I can imagine a time when I can pet their soft feathers and stand to watch them fly into the sunset. It’s my hope that, when I do eventually marry my turkey, I’ll find that society will happily join me in celebrating.

Cheers to you, Turkey freaks out there.

Thanks for finally being able to like something I do that others don’t. Thanks for the ability to value myself and my life. It’s been way too long, and I’m so grateful to you. And if, for some reason, you’re not with me right now, well, it’s alright, too. Your turkeys are probably all fucked up anyway. At least I’m not a turkey, you turkey. It’s not every day that someone loves a turkey. I hope you find someone who loves you more than you love a turkey. If you do, be my guest. If not, there’s always next year. And the year after that. And on and on and on. It’s a pretty great life.

Next time you feel like you want to eat a turkey, feel free to make that. But I think I’ll pass.