Turkey runs away to join the Dáil

He’s about two feet tall, of medium build, and when last seen, was heading in a westerly direction through the mid-Cork village of Lissarda.

My turkey goes by the name of Maurice, for it was on the farm of a man named Maurice that I purchased the bird some time back.

I had hoped to fatten him and enjoy the fruits of my labour on Christmas Day, but with him gone, I fear ’twill be just soggy vegetables and other nonsense for the festive dinner.

“So where has he gone?” you might wonder.

Well, he did leave a note, and from what I could make out of it, he’s heading back to Kilgarvan, home of the Healy-Raes.

His note was sketchy at best, for the claw has never been a great friend of the pen.

He apologised for the inconvenience caused, and hoped I might be able to secure a succulent goose someplace, or some other tasty bird to take his place on the table.

But there’s a fat chance of that, with my funds depleted in the run-up to Christmas.

The problem with Maurice was that he was always an inquisitive bird.

From the very moment he arrived, he had his head stuck in books and newspapers, rather than turkey feed, or scraps from the table.

Within weeks, he had learned to speak, and within no time at all, was quizzing me about the state of the nation.

Then last week, dismayed at the behaviour of one politician in particular, he asked would it be possible for a turkey to get into politics.

“Would the public vote for a turkey?” he asked, in all sincerity.

“They would,” I assured him. “For clearly they have voted for plenty before. At this stage, a bona fide turkey would be an improvement.”

“Well then,” says he, his beak quivering with pride (and knowing full well that an election is looming), “I want to throw my hat into the ring. I want to do my bit for this ailing country.”

And fair play to the bird, his heart was in the right place.

“Who do I need, to get the ball rolling?” was his next question.

And I responded that the Healy-Raes of Kilgarvan were the men he needed.

“With them on side, election success is guaranteed,” I assured my white feathered friend.

“Well,” says Maurice, pointing his wing in the direction of the door “take me back to Kilgarvan, and I’ll do the rest.”

And I assured him I would, just as soon as Christmas was behind us.

But unable to wait, or indeed to trust me, Maurice escaped during the night and is now on the run.

He’s heading back to Kilgarvan, as sure as night follows day, with the aim of entering politics and taking a seat in the next Dáil.

He could well turn out to be the missing piece in the next jigsaw rainbow of a government.

While I’m sorry Maurice has vamoosed, for I’m in a right pickle now struggling to find a replacement dish, my loss could well be for the betterment of the country.

Maurice the turkey could lead this fine country one day, and we might be a lot better off if he did.