Taking advantage of the turkeys born every minute
Taking advantage of the turkeys born every minute
Business was a little slow here on the farm, until I heard about the Adopt-A-Turkey program. Now the mortgage is paid off, I've moved an empty Branson theater onto my land for use as a hay barn, and I've got my eye on a powder blue Mercedes.
At first I thought they must be kidding, when I was listening to a Thanksgiving radio show last year, in which people were calling in their favorite recipes. In the middle of it, some self-righteous so-and-so called to brag that she and her significant other had adopted a turkey for Thanksgiving, and they were going to eat soy burgers on T-Day, with black bean curd pie for dessert.
I checked this out on the web, and sure enough, since at least 1986, there have been vegetarian farm "sanctuaries" accepting donations to spare turkeys from the ax. For fifteen bucks, donors get a photo, a year's subscription to a newsletter (printed on recycled newspaper, I would wager), and the comfort of knowing some turkey somewhere is spending Thanksgiving with its wishbone intact.
"But what good is that?" I asked myself, as I began to add up the dollars and the possibilities. Turkeys boarded with vegetarians are safer than Dick Cheney at an undisclosed location. Pay me not to eat one of my turkeys, however, and you are really accomplishing something.
With this extortion plot rapidly hatching in my brain, I placed an order for 20 turkey hatchlings from a poultry catalog. At the same time, I placed an ad in Vegan Victuals magazine, and posted the same ad on a few Feng Shui websites.
"Corpulent carnivore seeks virtuous vegetarians to stop me from committing the twin sins of killing and gluttony on Thanksgiving." (Okay, I'm not fat, but it paints a better word picture, don't you think?) "For a fee of $25 I will pledge not to eat one of the turkeys fattening on my farm. Your picture gets ours." (I figured that would save on photo costs.) "Newsletter subscription free for one year, or for an extra $5, we will save a tree and not send you anything."
The first week I received 1100 checks, 3000 pledges and 16 desperate offers to trade various articles of comparable value, if I would but spare the lives of these poor birds. Most adopters were from California and New York. One particularly touching letter was from a young Hindu computer geek in D.C. When I added a website (www.bigbreastedbirds.org) and credit card processing, adoptions went through the roof.
By this time, two turkeys had died of natural causes, six had run out into a rainstorm and drowned themselves by staring up at the sky openmouthed, and owls had snatched another three. I was at first frantic to figure out how to provide a turkey for each adopter, but then I revisited the other sites and saw it was impossible to distinguish among the various photos of the cloned gobblers. Postings clearly stated, "Visits by Reservation ONLY!" so I figured the odds of getting exposed for assigning the same bird to 6 or 8,000 adopters would be nil.
In July I sent out a bulletin with color photos of all sorts of dreadful diseases turkeys are susceptible to, and I received over $20,000 to defray my veterinarian bills of $35. In August I described the danger of heat stress, and received $13,000 for livestock fans, plus three donated air conditioners, which I installed in the house.
I allowed one persistent elderly woman to actually visit in September, and she expressed dismay that so few turkeys had been adopted. (I was annoyed that she didn't ask to see the second set of books I had laboriously created.) Judging only by the care she saw me lavishing on nine turkeys, she asked if I wouldn't be willing to take in more if I had sufficient funds, and she promised to leave me a handsome bequest in her will.
That night a bobcat made off with turkey #9, which had been my favorite.
I wasn't going to mess with any of the giant white turkeys, like the commercial farms raise around here, until someone from the highway department heard about my operation and dropped off a battered hen, which had fallen off a Butterball turkey truck. She had bad hips, and could scarcely walk, she was so top heavy, but I took a liking to her. I found a Vet in St. Louis who gave her breast reduction surgery and a couple of those steel hip joints like they put in pampered poodles nowadays. She is doing fine, and I expect the donations to my special appeal for her will cover the expenses many times over.
I'm cooking up a plan for a "Have a Heart, Not Ham" pig adoption for Easter, and the notion of an "Only Jerks Eat Jerky," cow campaign keeps kicking around in my brain.
The only thing I haven't figured out is what to eat for Thanksgiving. I've read that the Pilgrims could always get by with lobster.
Business was a little slow here on the farm, until I heard about the Adopt-A-Turkey program. Now the mortgage is paid off, I've moved an empty Branson theater onto my land for use as a hay barn, and I've got my eye on a powder blue Mercedes.
At first I thought they must be kidding, when I was listening to a Thanksgiving radio show last year, in which people were calling in their favorite recipes. In the middle of it, some self-righteous so-and-so called to brag that she and her significant other had adopted a turkey for Thanksgiving, and they were going to eat soy burgers on T-Day, with black bean curd pie for dessert.
I checked this out on the web, and sure enough, since at least 1986, there have been vegetarian farm "sanctuaries" accepting donations to spare turkeys from the ax. For fifteen bucks, donors get a photo, a year's subscription to a newsletter (printed on recycled newspaper, I would wager), and the comfort of knowing some turkey somewhere is spending Thanksgiving with its wishbone intact.
"But what good is that?" I asked myself, as I began to add up the dollars and the possibilities. Turkeys boarded with vegetarians are safer than Dick Cheney at an undisclosed location. Pay me not to eat one of my turkeys, however, and you are really accomplishing something.
With this extortion plot rapidly hatching in my brain, I placed an order for 20 turkey hatchlings from a poultry catalog. At the same time, I placed an ad in Vegan Victuals magazine, and posted the same ad on a few Feng Shui websites.
"Corpulent carnivore seeks virtuous vegetarians to stop me from committing the twin sins of killing and gluttony on Thanksgiving." (Okay, I'm not fat, but it paints a better word picture, don't you think?) "For a fee of $25 I will pledge not to eat one of the turkeys fattening on my farm. Your picture gets ours." (I figured that would save on photo costs.) "Newsletter subscription free for one year, or for an extra $5, we will save a tree and not send you anything."
The first week I received 1100 checks, 3000 pledges and 16 desperate offers to trade various articles of comparable value, if I would but spare the lives of these poor birds. Most adopters were from California and New York. One particularly touching letter was from a young Hindu computer geek in D.C. When I added a website (www.bigbreastedbirds.org) and credit card processing, adoptions went through the roof.
By this time, two turkeys had died of natural causes, six had run out into a rainstorm and drowned themselves by staring up at the sky openmouthed, and owls had snatched another three. I was at first frantic to figure out how to provide a turkey for each adopter, but then I revisited the other sites and saw it was impossible to distinguish among the various photos of the cloned gobblers. Postings clearly stated, "Visits by Reservation ONLY!" so I figured the odds of getting exposed for assigning the same bird to 6 or 8,000 adopters would be nil.
In July I sent out a bulletin with color photos of all sorts of dreadful diseases turkeys are susceptible to, and I received over $20,000 to defray my veterinarian bills of $35. In August I described the danger of heat stress, and received $13,000 for livestock fans, plus three donated air conditioners, which I installed in the house.
I allowed one persistent elderly woman to actually visit in September, and she expressed dismay that so few turkeys had been adopted. (I was annoyed that she didn't ask to see the second set of books I had laboriously created.) Judging only by the care she saw me lavishing on nine turkeys, she asked if I wouldn't be willing to take in more if I had sufficient funds, and she promised to leave me a handsome bequest in her will.
That night a bobcat made off with turkey #9, which had been my favorite.
I wasn't going to mess with any of the giant white turkeys, like the commercial farms raise around here, until someone from the highway department heard about my operation and dropped off a battered hen, which had fallen off a Butterball turkey truck. She had bad hips, and could scarcely walk, she was so top heavy, but I took a liking to her. I found a Vet in St. Louis who gave her breast reduction surgery and a couple of those steel hip joints like they put in pampered poodles nowadays. She is doing fine, and I expect the donations to my special appeal for her will cover the expenses many times over.
I'm cooking up a plan for a "Have a Heart, Not Ham" pig adoption for Easter, and the notion of an "Only Jerks Eat Jerky," cow campaign keeps kicking around in my brain.
The only thing I haven't figured out is what to eat for Thanksgiving. I've read that the Pilgrims could always get by with lobster.
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