It takes a little more than an hour to drive from downtown Seattle to Vaughn, Washington, a thumbtack of a town near the Hood Canal. All that quiet must make Vaughn the perfect place for Al Prante, president of the Narrows Strut Busters chapter of the National Wild Turkey Federation, to perfect turkey calling, which may very well be as much an art as it is a science.

Supposedly, Prante has learned that the best way to charm a turkey is to sound like a sexy woman. According to the Kitsap Sun, Prante can imitate a turkey dance, too, complete with arms moving like quivering wings.

I’m imagining Stars, the Thanksgiving turkey President Bush pardoned a few years ago, nestled snugly somewhere near Bethesda. He startles awake after hearing the distant call of some pretty young thing. The bird, half-dreaming of a distant lover, glides across the greater 48 states and lands smack dab in the middle of Vaughn, Washington and onto the turkey caller’s flailing arm.

It’s a new American legion of honor—the turkey is really a knight, and the turkey caller a grandiose commander. Man and beast are perched for so long that they become a cedar pillar, some grand totem pole of indigenous kin.

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