The turkeys delicately pick at their feed. They strut around
the barn calmly and wander outside for fresh air on occasion. They are quite
nervous, however. If there are strange noises or new arrivals in the barnyard,
they are more likely to stay inside.
But there is always one in every bunch, or rafter, of
turkeys. One rogue turkey goes wandering every chance he gets. The Farmer keeps
finding one bird out of the penned area, wandering the barn. If the door is
left open, he is often found poking about outside.
I asked my husband how he knows it’s the same bird every
time. They all look the same to me.
“Oh, it’s him,” he says. “I know his face.”
We took a week off the farm earlier this month to enjoy a
cottage on a lake. The Farmer had to come home every couple of days for real
estate business, and to fill the feeders in the chicken and turkey coops. Every
day he counted beaks. All was good until the last day of our trip. One bird was
missing.
Travelin’ Tom had busted out of the coop once again. He was
sighted high-tailing it through the soybean field, leaving a tuft feathers
behind where he had squeezed through the barbed wire fence. The Farmer
attempted to follow this trail, but he couldn’t find Tom. My husband, intrepid
hunter of wild turkeys in springtime, sat out at night with a flashlight in an
attempt to blind and nab his own bird. But the turkey wasn’t coming out of
hiding.
One Saturday night, on our way out to a friend’s house for a
barbecue, we saw Tom. He was just standing in the bushes at the side of the
driveway, watching us go. I think I even saw him wave.
“Saw the turkey,” I said to my husband, under my breath. I
hoped my already hard-of-hearing husband didn’t hear me, because we were late
for the party and I didn’t want his turkey-hunting obsession to ruin our
evening.
“Huh?” He slammed on the brakes. Just then a bloom of white
feathers burst out of the undergrowth and took off down the tractor lane toward
the barn.
“Oh. Looks like he’s headed home anyway.”
But Tom wasn’t quite ready to return. Perhaps our domestic
bird had encountered a gang of wild turkeys who had taken him under their wing,
so to speak. A band of feathered friends who taught him how to forage for
mushrooms, bugs and berries in the forest. They probably showed him the creek
that runs alongside our property, with its fascinating collection of crickets,
frogs and fish. I don’t think he could fly up to roost with his wild friends in
the trees but I imagine he gave it a good old college try. His adventurous
spirit kept him out of doors for several days and warm nights. When it started
to get cooler in the evenings, however, Tom wandered back home. He was spotted
in the front yard after Sunday dinner.
“Ooh. There’s the turkey!” I notified my husband. The bird
was standing in the corner of my flowerbed, munching on a hosta. Most Sundays
we have at least two if not three dogs in attendance, and this week the dogs
got to the bird before we did. The turkey mustered every ounce of strength he
had to launch himself up into the air and over the stone fence into the bush.
My daughter Annie, who had been brought up to date on the situation, called her
trained hunting dog to action.
Rupert the aged yellow lab with the bad hip put on his game
face. He bounded like a deer into the bush and after a bit of rustling and a
spray of feathers, he emerged with the massive turkey in his jaws. Annie gently
collected the bird and praised her dog, who had been careful not to harm the
turkey. The bird, for his part, had gone peacefully into the arrest, playing
dead. This is a good thing because he could have done quite a bit of harm to
both dog and humans with his talons.
Annie carried the bird back to the barn and made sure the
door was barred shut. Quite an amount of gobbling and squawking ensued, as Tom
regaled his friends with his tales of excitement and intrigue.
I’m going to save Tom for someone special this Thanksgiving.
He will be a meal that comes along with its own story to tell over dinner.
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