Turkey Tom [FICTION]

With coke bottle glasses and unruly, curly hair, my cousin Melvin epitomized every conspiracy theorist ever written about. By tacit agreement, almost everyone in the family avoided getting him started on any of his pet theories. Uncle Mort, however, loved to try to start new ones with Melvin’s help. Usually, Melvin regarded our uncle with skeptical eyes before pushing his glasses back up on his nose, sniffing disdainfully, and turning away or outright explaining why he didn’t believe a word Mort said. Either way, Uncle Mort’s raucous laugh drowned out all conversation for about five minutes.

This year, Uncle Mort decided to start a little more subtly. He stepped up to the window and peered outside. He maintained this silent vigil for ten minutes before Melvin finally took the bait. He tentatively stepped over to peer around our uncle’s prodigious stomach.

He whispered softly, “What do you see out there?”

“Huh?” Mort feigned being startled and looked down at Melvin with a gleam in his eye. “Well, boy, the neighborhood strays are up to something, so I am watching them watch us.”

At that announcement, I had to come peer out the window, too. My mother shook her head at me and rolled her eyes at her younger brother’s antics. I persevered in joining the gawking. When I finally found an angle to see outside, a small horde of cats gazed back at me with bored yet intelligent eyes. At their center sat our own wild cat, Tom. His head titled just so as if he saw me, and I smiled.

“They know we have turkey,” Uncle Mort intoned, “And they mean to have it for themselves.”

Melvin elbowed me gently in the side, “Molly will share with them. Every cat knows she is an easy mark.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but I couldn’t deny that I have snuck bits of turkey to any cat I could lure close enough since I could walk. I knew my my mother would proudly pull out photographic evidence of my infinite cuteness and slavery to cats multiple times during the evening. I clamped my mouth shut and offered him the closest version of a sneer that I could muster while holding back a smile.

He didn’t notice. His focus alternated casting quizzical looks at the cats with suspiciously regarding my uncle. He finally decided to pop out the front door and peer under the bushes along front of the house. The cats found this too much to bear and disappeared. My uncle found this hilarious and snickered in self-satisfaction. As Melvin turned back toward the house, he stifled his good humor and wandered into the kitchen to sneak any food that was ready before the turkey.

He returned with a roll, which he promptly stuffed into his face as Melvin approached him with that look that foretold questions followed by more questions. Melvin opened his mouth to speak and Mort held up one hand to silence him while pointing at his chipmunk cheeks with the other.

“Later then,” Melvin narrowed his eyes and returned to the window.

I peeked over his shoulder to see that the cats had already returned. I shivered a little as all those intelligent green eyes turned my way.

“It really does look like they are casing the place,” I whispered.

Melvin shook his head, “You know how Uncle Mort kids. If you want to know about a real conspiracy, I offer you the assassination of…”

“Oh crud. I was supposed to help mom with the gravy,” I conveniently remembered.

I doubted Melvin believed me. I wouldn’t have. But I had heard every one of his conspiracies so many times. I could share them as succinctly as he does and even offer proof of my assertions, well, his assertions. I shuddered and hurried to the kitchen. To my chagrin, my mother accosted me in the doorway.

“Just in time to stir the gravy, darling,” she offered me a wooden spoon and beelined for the back door. “Whew! I need some cool air in here.”

My aunt mumbled something about “hot flashes” and earned a dirty look for her commentary. My mother opened her mouth to respond in kind, but my youngest cousin’s squeals of horror brought the whole house running to the front door.

“Tom. Tom. Are you okay?” She cried out.

We gathered around to watch her pick up the giant tabby cat, who normally discouraged such effrontery with claws and teeth. As she cradled him to her chest, his eyes opened a fraction but quickly closed again. We crowded around her. My mother reached over and took him into her own arms. Mother was his favorite and he snuggled happily into her arms. He instantly began purring loudly.

“He seems fine to me,” mom said.

A crash from the kitchen brought the concerned congregants rushing in another direction. We converged on the kitchen to find the turkey roaster overturned on the kitchen floor. The runt of Tom’s litter, Tiger, straddled the cooling turkey and dragged it as fast as she could torward the back door where the rest of the watchers waited to help her. Tom chose this moment to extract himself from mom’s embrace and join the feasters on the lawn.

“Well, there goes Thanksgiving,” my mother said sadly as we watched the turkey disappear except for a trail of grease leading to the lucky hoard of soon to be over-stuffed cats.

“Finally got one right,” Melvin patted Uncle Mort on the back while gazing up at him with new respect.

Mort stood with his mouth open. No teases or guffaws preceded from his gaping maw—just borderline hyperventilation as our Thanksgiving dreams became feline reality.

~~~

Watch out for those tricky kitties. They will get your turkey if you let them! Hope you have a fabulous Thanksgiving and are grateful for all that you have.