For many of these unfortunate birds, most of whom are raised in the spatial equivalent of a prison camp, being able to stand at all can be a luxury. In 2022, 257 million turkeys were produced in the United States; Of these, nearly 230 million were raised on farms that produced at least 66,000 turkeys annually. Additionally, most domesticated turkeys only have 2 to 3 square feet of space to run around. This extreme captivity leads to intense conflict among the turkeys, who often fight each other and occasionally eat the victims’ carcasses. To limit the damage from such attacks, turkey breeders shear the edges of turkeys’ beaks and claws.

Luckily for these caged, crippled and unfortunate birds, domesticated turkeys don’t live very long. After birth, the turkeys are separated by gender and slaughtered after just 11 to 18 weeks. And that assumes there is no “depopulation” – a euphemism used to hide the horror of the mass killing of flu-stricken turkeys. Singer reports that if just a few turkeys on a farm test positive for avian influenza, all the turkeys on that farm are killed by herding them into a room, cutting off all ventilation and raising the room’s temperature to over 100 degrees. This practice, which Singer says is attributed in part to misguided regulations and a lack of public pressure to use more humane methods, kills most turkeys within three hours. The few survivors are killed with a bolt gun.

Through Think about TurkeySinger convincingly argues that the turkey, of all things, deserves our pity, which may seem strange at first glance. With its long neck, pointed beak and beady eyes, it doesn’t seem like a good candidate to win the sympathies of hungry people. These unpleasant characteristics—and the fact that turkeys are largely flightless—make Benjamin Franklin’s favorable comparison of the turkey to the majestic bald eagle a bit of a mystery.

But Singer’s decision to choose this inconspicuous bird as his subject is what makes his book so compelling. He could have chosen to portray the pig or the cow, two animals with enough intelligence and gentleness to make many a meat eater uncomfortable. But by detailing the turkey’s plight, Singer reminds us that even the lowest animal deserves our compassion.

One way he does this is by asking readers to consider a hypothesis in which dogs are raised, slaughtered, and eaten like turkeys. Then he writes:

If, as I hope and expect, you would be horrified by such an industry, boycott its products, vote for politicians who have promised to abolish it, and never sit at a table where the carcass of one of these dogs lies dismembered and consumed, then no other action should be taken with regard to the existing US turkey industry. Turkeys and dogs are not the same, but both can live comfortable and relatively pain-free lives for several years.

I have read Think about Turkey with my cats curled up next to me, making for an unsettling study in contrasts. My cats are pampered and cuddled and played with and loved. When I go home for Thanksgiving, they ride in the backseat of my car and are showered with affection by my relatives. But do my cats really deserve such a better life than that of the turkey I’ll eat on Thanksgiving? Do they deserve so much more love than the thousands of turkeys that are caged, artificially inseminated and slaughtered indiscriminately? If the answer is no, I only have one of two logical options: treat turkeys the way I treat my cats, or treat my cats the way turkeys are treated.

But logic doesn’t always win. When Thanksgiving rolls around, I’ll undoubtedly eat turkey, despite being largely convinced by Singer’s arguments (and despite my dislike of turkey breast, which is always dry despite the accompanying gravy). Still, I can give Singer credit for forcing me to confront my own ethical contradictions and making me feel guilty. At least in this respect he succeeded.