The battle of the man-eating turkey

So, a turkey walks into a house — stop me if you’ve heard this one! 

As if I need to have another reason why I shouldn’t be left home alone, my recent run in with a pesky turkey tops the list.

Recently my cats have figured out ways to get outside, including opening the screen doors of the living room sliders. I wouldn’t mind them doing this if they shut the slider behind them, but alas, cats don’t think like that. Selfish. 

I turn to go to the living room, stop dead in my tracks and see it — a menacing four-foot turkey with beady eyes that seem to be peering into my soul.

For those who don’t know me, I hate turkeys. They smell, they’re loud, they’re messy and they remind me of little dinosaurs waiting to tear my flesh apart. This isn’t my first run-in with them, but that’s a different column. 

When the turkey started to walk around like it owned the place, I knew I had to get it out. I gave myself 10 seconds to panic before putting my big girl pants on getting that thing out.

“All right, you stupid bird, get out,” I said, pointing to the same door it came in.