I knew this would happen.
Our turkeys are fighting.
Baby stands tall in the back
Granted, Thanksgiving Dinner (a/k/a Baby) was never destined to be a long-term resident around here, but…we had such peace until early this week. It’s in the nature of things, I suppose, this desire to be “top dog,” but it’s disturbing nonetheless, this bloodlust: even the mother hen Ruby is in on it. “What’s going on with the turkeys?” asked our daughter. I asked her if she remembered when Mel, our mellow gander, turned mean, and she said “yeah, didn’t he have a poison in him?” I had forgotten that I had told her he had “testosterone poisoning.” That led me to give a lengthy explanation of hormones and how they act as chemical regulators in our bodies, “and you have a tiny bit of testosterone in you, too, girl.”
“I know, and it hurts right here,” she said, pointing to her heart.
Baby is something of a miracle baby, after all. Ruby, his mom, sat on 9 eggs until she got attacked by a raccoon (the bastard got into her gated, latched pen) who ate all her eggs, and messed her up a bit. I knew the instinct to sit was still with her, so I went on a wild egg hunt, grabbing what I could around the house/yard…tough going considering I had just sold the eggs for the week. So, in a newly reinforced enclosure, Ruby got to sit on one fake egg from our daughter’s toy kitchen, two fertile goose eggs, seven infertile chicken/guinea eggs, and one lonely week-old turkey egg from the refrigerator.
On Mother’s Day, out hatched Baby and Jeffrey the gosling.
They’ve had a grand time ever since. Ruby is a fabulous mother, and Earl is a fabulous though goofy father. They’ve been a garrulous threesome ever since, following us around, making threats at the dog, in general, being rather gorgeous traffic-stopping yard statuary (“Are those turkeys?” from passing motorists). But now Baby is in exile in the chicken pen, and sleeps by himself on the porch roof or back deck. He’s bigger than his father, which surprises me.
Like father, like son