Imogene McCormick nervously flipped through last April’s issue of Southern Living while seated on the plastic sofa in the waiting room of Dr. K.P. Stevenson over in Rockingham County, the turkey capital of the world. She paid little attention to the articles and the advertisements. She lingered but a moment on a recipe for spicy chicken wings and quickly read a little about plants best suited for shaded areas. She looked at her watch. Two-fifteen. An hour had already passed without any word on the condition of her husband, Carl.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the door to the waiting room opened and Dr. Stevenson entered with a kind smile and a clip board.

Imogene put the magazine on the table and stood.

“How is he, doctor?” she cautiously asked.

“He’s resting,” he answered.

Since there were no other patients waiting, Dr. Stevenson sat on the plastic sofa beside Imogene.

“So is it serious?” she asked.

“It’s probably one of the worst cases I’ve seen in a long time,” Dr. Stevenson said solemnly. “Carl is suffering from turkeynophobia.”

“What?” She asked with a puzzled look on her face.

“Turkeynophobia,” he repeated.

“Is there any hope?”

“Yes, but there will be some therapy involved and plenty of turkey noodle soup.”

“Will he be able to continue running the turkey farm?”

“That we won’t know until we see how he reacts to the soup,” he cautiously answered. “Insurance will pay for the therapy, but you better clip coupons for the Campbell’s.”

“This is terrible. Thanksgiving is this week and Tyson is expectin’ our final delivery tomorrow. Those horrible, horrible birds—especially the one turkey that Carl called Big Red—he was the king pin. He was the one that caused the revolt in the first place. Oh, I should have stopped this when we first saw the signs.”

“So how did this all come about?”

“Well,” Imogene began. “It was subtle at first. A few weeks ago, Carl came into the kitchen with a note in his hand. He asked me what I thought of it. Scrawled across the note in terrible handwritin’ was the statement: ‘EAT HAM.’”

“Eat ham?” Dr. Stevenson asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Carl commented on how strange it was, walked into the living room, sat down, and stared at the note.”

“Go on,” Dr. Stevenson urged.

“We didn’t think much more about it until a week later when Carl yelled for me to come to the turkey pens. When I got there, he pointed at the ground just outside the locked pen.  In the dirt, scrawled in the same poor handwritin’ was ‘EAT HAM.’ We weren’t quite sure what to think of it. We forgot about it until this mornin’. Carl called for me to come quick to the barn. I did. He was standin’ beside his black flat bed truck. In the dust on the driver’s side door was scrawled the words: ‘EAT HAM FOR THNKSGIVING.’ Who could have written this chicken scratch, I asked. Carl turned away, walked out of the barn and stopped suddenly as he started down toward the turkey pens. ‘Imogene,’ Carl said.  ‘That ain’t no chicken scratch. That’s turkey scratch.’”

“I walked out, stood beside my husband, and in the turkey pens, all 5,000 turkeys were standing at attention in rows with Big Red, Carl’s prize male bird, up front.”

“So what did Carl do then,” Dr. Stevenson asked.

“He told me to go inside the house. I didn’t want to, but he insisted. I told him to be careful and I went on in the house. From the livin’ room window, I watched him open the gate to the turkey pen and walk up to Big Red. They stood in front of each other like those pictures you see of Lee and Grant at Appomattox. It was real eerie.”

“Sounds pretty strange,” Dr. Stevenson commented.

“And then Big Red nodded slowly and Carl shook his head as though he were sayin’ no to a request. And then—oh it’s horrible—Big Red raised his right wing, brought it down swiftly and poor Carl disappeared into a sea of feathers. By the time I got to him, he was all scratched up and he was repeatin’ over and over: ‘Eat ham. Eat ham. Let the turkeys be. The Pilgrims ate ham.’”

“Yes,” Dr. Stevenson said. “Turkeynophobia.”

“Can I see Carl?”

“Sure you can, Imogene.” They stood. “He’s in the second room on your right. I’ve treated the scratches. The rest is up to the turkey noodle soup.”

Imogene disappeared down the hall. At that moment, Marianne, Dr. Stevenson’s receptionist, walked in through the front door, returning from lunch.

“Hey, Doc,” she said. “Been busy?”

“Just Carl and Imogene McCormick,” he said under his breath.

“Oh, boy. What is it this time?” She asked.

“They’ve been in the moonshine again. Can’t smell a thing on their breath, but I swear they are both higher than kites.”

“Did Imogene take a fryin’ pan to him this time?”

“No, she scratched the heck out of his face. Blamed it on their turkeys.”

“Hey, there’s a new one. Quite original, I must say.”

“I tried to pacify her by making up a disease called turkeynophobia.”

“Hmm. Fear of turkeys. Gotta love it.”

“I better check on our two love birds.”

Just as Marianne sat down at her desk, the phone rang. She answered it.

“Doc Stevenson’s office. Hey Blanche. What? Calm down, honey.” Marianne took notes. “You what? He what? Where? They attacked him? And he’s confused? A note? What did the note say? Okay. Okay. I’ll get Doc Stevenson. He can tell y’ how to treat the scratches.” At that moment, Dr. Stevenson returned to the waiting room. “Wait just a second.”

“Who’s that, Marianne?” he asked.

“It’s Blanche Reynolds. This is real weird. She and her husband Ralph own the turkey farm next to Carl and Imogene McCormick. She said that the birds attacked him just a little while ago. They scratched his face up pretty bad.” The blood rushed from Dr. Stevenson’s face. “She needs to know what she should put on his face. Says Ralph is a little disoriented and confused. She found a strange note in his pocket that read—”

“—‘Eat ham for Thanksgiving,’” Dr. Stevenson said finishing her sentence.

“Yeah, how did you know? She didn’t recognize the handwritin.’ Said it was real chicken scratch.”

“That ain’t no chicken scratch, Marianne,” Dr. Stevenson said as the ill feelings of turkeynophobia crept into his body. “That’s turkey scratch.”

Have a happy Thanksgiving whether you eat ham or dare to eat turkey this Thursday.