He gobbled as he pranced across the field.
Kids bussed to grade school gazed out of their windows looking for Harold. The local football team's mascot dressed up like a turkey and strutted in front of the stands. Excited fans shouted, "Go, Harold, Go!"
Everyone loved Harold. Except for Olaf.
Olaf drooled for a turkey. Only one problem: he couldn't afford one. If he could catch Harold, he'd invite Wessel to his one-room shack on the edge of town for Christmas dinner.
Wessel drank wine, picked up cigarette butts off the ground, and scrambled through garbage bins behind restaurants.
With a gunny sack slung over his back, Olaf crept onto the harvested field before dawn. He looked this way and that way, searching for Harold.
He sat on his haunches behind a tree. Drawing a bottle of wine out of his tattered jacket, he took a swig. With a grimy hand, he wiped his twisted mouth.
When Harold appeared with the sun, Olaf quietly got to his feet, and carrying an open bag, he protruded his lips and made like a turkey.
Harold eyed Olaf. Tail feathers splayed and talons stretched, a reminder of who ruled the range. Like a bull in a pen, Harold scratched the dirt.
"I'll catch you," Olaf yelled. He dropped the bag. Drunk and confused, with outstretched arms, he stumbled and crisscrossed the lot.
On Christmas day, Olaf and Wessel sat on a park bench.
"No turkey this year," Olaf said. "But we still have this." He held up a bottle of Thunderbird.
"Yep," Wessel reached for the wine.
And Harold, he marched in a one bird Christmas parade across the field.