The Turkey’s Christmas or: A point-of-view subject

By Euclides 1

“Ah! I escaped!”

said the turkey, between sips. His reasoning was no longer very clear and his indolent
eyes resembled the cross-eyed looking of the drunks. He was sipping from the bottle of
sugar cane brandy that was left to him. He filled the beak and then with the neck all
stretched upward let roll down the liquid.

He looked at the dozing chickens and leaned on the fence of the hen house so as not to
fall.

“ A toast ladies!” He uttered with a hoarse and pasty voice without noticing that he had
become an inconvenient drunk. “This certainly is a wonderful night for chickens . Not
for me ladies, not for me...”

The silence of the lukewarm night was broken only by his evanescent monologue or by
the occasional explosion of laughter that came from the illuminated house, nearby.

He burped shamelessly and almost at the same time in the house a botlle of champagne
was poped in the party.

He looked at the side of the house, as erected as he could, and tried to make a bow:

“ My respects to the gentleman sacrificed instead of me! “

He said the last word fogged by a new burp and fell seated, half straddled, leaned in a
piece of wood, thinking about the turkey bought in a supermarket that had substituted
him on his master’s table at the last minute.

A chill ran down his spine while he remembered the stories he had heard in which they
decapitate the intoxicated turkeys. What a carnage! He was a little anxious, rioted:

“Why don't you eat chicken as you do the whole year?” He shouted stretching out his
neck.

The rooster, offended, muttered something at the corner and flapped the wings.

“Or rooster! Try rooster once for a change!” He charged again, in a provocative tone.

“Eat chickens and roosters! Be stuffed on chickens!”

And as the chickens became anxious:

1- para praticar o inglês

“Nothing personal, ladies... “

He took one more sip and recollected the panic he had felt hours earlier, when, for
cconvenience, they bought the supermarket turkey. Affectionately he touched his own
feathers.

In an effort he got up, tried a hoarse gloo-gloo and went staggering to his corner.

“What a drunkness!” He kept thinking. He needed to sleep. He went tottering, tripping

and leaning on the fence. He gave a hiccup that made the rooster open an eye and
whisper ill-tempered in a low voice. His conscience was fleeing with the vapors of the
alcohol.

The poor guy from the supermarket had a thermometer threaded the belly, he had heard
people say.

“Damn! He might be a relative...”