There’s a pretty hard and fast rule about farm animal ownership: there shall be no sleeping in on the weekends.
Somehow, in my deepest dreamy slumber at 7:30 in the morning on Sunday, I could have sworn I heard a turkey. Our hen turkey, to be precise. She wasn’t alarmed, she was simply making her typical cooing noise. Hmm. I woke up and still heard it. Considering our bedroom is on the second floor and the turkeys were supposed to be locked up for the night, I, uh, thought I was still dreaming.
Nope: not dreaming. She’d flown out and onto the porch roof outside the bedroom, and was asking for her breakfast. That’s pretty good for a bird brain, don’t you think?
And here’s the birthday girl’s interpretation of our turkey.