The three wild turkeys took up residence on the
far edge of the asparagus plot that lay next to the side of our house. A male
and two females, and to me, seeing them for the first time in “real life”, they
were much larger than I expected.
The area they selected was rarely used once the crop was in. It was a quiet spot next to the dirt driveway that went around to the covered porch in the back of the house.
We never used the front door. Friends coming over would just tie up their horses to the back-porch rail and scrape their dirty boots on its weathered planks before entering our kitchen.
My son and I watched as the turkeys worked together gathering and making a mound with the straw that had lain between rows in the garden. Once done, their shelter stood about three feet tall, almost sweat lodge like in appearance. It was high enough that when they perched on top they had a clear view of anything coming down the road. We lived about six miles out of town, and with traffic almost non-existent, the turkeys would meander from our yard, across the dirt road, to the grassy field of the cherry tree orchard on its other side to forage.
We quickly became used their proprietary ways.
On more than one occasion, when we ventured too close to their fortress, they had taken off after us, squawking loudly until we made hasty retreats. We adopted a “we won’t bother you” attitude and, I guess, in some ways, felt a certain sense of satisfaction that our home was considered a safe place by them.
I was doing dishes at the kitchen sink one morning, gazing out the window, when I saw in the distance two people walking down the road headed toward our place.
From their suit and tie attire, and the bundle of leaflets in their arms, I knew they were Adventists, eager to share their literature with the residents of the ranch they were approaching.
I’m not interested in joining their group, and only a few of the stories in the Watch Tower are of interest to me, but I’m too polite to ignore their spiel, and always made a small donation to their cause for their efforts in making the trek.
I dried my hands, and took a last look at what I could make out now, to be two young men, who were just nearing our front gate. But before I could move away to collect my change purse, I saw that they had suddenly stopped walking.
I was trying to figure out what had caused this break in their service, when one of the men began running back and forth across the road, bending over again and again, and grabbing what seemed to be stones from the dirt.
The other man began yelling something. I couldn’t make out his words, but clearly he was agitated. Finally, I saw the reason for their actions. Two of the three turkeys were running quickly in their direction, making loud, raucous gobbles. One of the men took sharp aim and launched a stone at the lead bird.
This just made the situation worse. The turkeys picked up their speed and went after the two men with a vengeance. These carriers of the gospel clearly hadn’t come across anything like these furious feathered beasts in their scriptures. The men frantically turned back to the direction from whence they had come, dropping their papers, as the turkey front line closed in on their heels.
I watched the men run away as fast as they could to get away from these birds on a mission. Small clouds of dirt followed their screams as they all disappeared from my view.
After about a minute or two, I watched as the two turkeys could be seen slowly making their way back up the road, and once again take up their post, on what was clearly, “their property” in the asparagus patch. Their struts proudly announced their Victory over the god-fearing intruders, who were nowhere in sight.
Word of our new “watch dogs” must have gotten out, and we were never bothered by solicitors again.
The area they selected was rarely used once the crop was in. It was a quiet spot next to the dirt driveway that went around to the covered porch in the back of the house.
We never used the front door. Friends coming over would just tie up their horses to the back-porch rail and scrape their dirty boots on its weathered planks before entering our kitchen.
My son and I watched as the turkeys worked together gathering and making a mound with the straw that had lain between rows in the garden. Once done, their shelter stood about three feet tall, almost sweat lodge like in appearance. It was high enough that when they perched on top they had a clear view of anything coming down the road. We lived about six miles out of town, and with traffic almost non-existent, the turkeys would meander from our yard, across the dirt road, to the grassy field of the cherry tree orchard on its other side to forage.
We quickly became used their proprietary ways.
On more than one occasion, when we ventured too close to their fortress, they had taken off after us, squawking loudly until we made hasty retreats. We adopted a “we won’t bother you” attitude and, I guess, in some ways, felt a certain sense of satisfaction that our home was considered a safe place by them.
I was doing dishes at the kitchen sink one morning, gazing out the window, when I saw in the distance two people walking down the road headed toward our place.
From their suit and tie attire, and the bundle of leaflets in their arms, I knew they were Adventists, eager to share their literature with the residents of the ranch they were approaching.
I’m not interested in joining their group, and only a few of the stories in the Watch Tower are of interest to me, but I’m too polite to ignore their spiel, and always made a small donation to their cause for their efforts in making the trek.
I dried my hands, and took a last look at what I could make out now, to be two young men, who were just nearing our front gate. But before I could move away to collect my change purse, I saw that they had suddenly stopped walking.
I was trying to figure out what had caused this break in their service, when one of the men began running back and forth across the road, bending over again and again, and grabbing what seemed to be stones from the dirt.
The other man began yelling something. I couldn’t make out his words, but clearly he was agitated. Finally, I saw the reason for their actions. Two of the three turkeys were running quickly in their direction, making loud, raucous gobbles. One of the men took sharp aim and launched a stone at the lead bird.
This just made the situation worse. The turkeys picked up their speed and went after the two men with a vengeance. These carriers of the gospel clearly hadn’t come across anything like these furious feathered beasts in their scriptures. The men frantically turned back to the direction from whence they had come, dropping their papers, as the turkey front line closed in on their heels.
I watched the men run away as fast as they could to get away from these birds on a mission. Small clouds of dirt followed their screams as they all disappeared from my view.
After about a minute or two, I watched as the two turkeys could be seen slowly making their way back up the road, and once again take up their post, on what was clearly, “their property” in the asparagus patch. Their struts proudly announced their Victory over the god-fearing intruders, who were nowhere in sight.
Word of our new “watch dogs” must have gotten out, and we were never bothered by solicitors again.
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