of turkeys and the plague.

Someone once told me that when plagues come, the teachers are the first to die.

I have reason to believe this is true. Since I began teaching I have probably spent three quarters of the time ill. It’s not really a big surprise –being coughed and sneezed on by unwashed thirteen year-olds from 8:30 to 3:30 every day is not conducive to good health. Come evening a guy just wants to boil himself in bleach.

This latest round of flu - the third since Christmas - seems particularly vicious. I’m feverish and shaky, but I’ve come to work all the same thanks to a charming policy we have requiring teachers to find their own subs.

In my feverish state I’ve suddenly developed an odd urge – the urge to become a turkey owner.

Some people might think that sudden urge to be a turkey owner sounds a little crazy.

I dispute that statement.

The sudden urge to invade Poland is crazy. The sudden urge to engage trees in discourse is crazy. The sudden urge to have a bird of prehistoric appearance wandering the yard is eccentric.

“But Stu,” you ask, “What does your wife have to say about this?”

Dear reader, fear not. My beautiful wife is quite used to my sudden inexplicable schemes. Anyway, how could one not want a giant gobbling dinosaur in her yard? Why else would one move to the farm?

“But Stu,” you inquire, “What could you possibly know about keeping a turkey?”

So many questions, dear reader!

I will learn, my friend. When you have the urge to be self-sufficient it’s surprising what you can figure out.

Besides, I have lived in Alberta my entire life – anyone who has lived that long under the provincial conservatives knows a thing or two about turkeys.