I knew the turkey that we ate at Thanksgiving. We did not raise turkeys this year, but my friend did, and I took care of her animals when she went on summer trips. My friend’s turkeys lived in a small pasture surrounded by a 4 foot wooden fence that was beefed up with chicken wire. As soon as they grew fairly large, the fence was just another interesting part of the landscape for the turkeys. They crossed over it freely to strut around by the barn.
When it was my job to care for the turkeys, I pulled up in the driveway and looked for them near that fence, expecting to see several of them roosting on top of it. Alerted by the sound of my car pulling up, they also looked for me, and soon they came running towards me. These were large, white birds with long necks and ancient looking faces. It was a daunting to see a flock of them racing towards me, but when they reached me, they gathered around earnestly and expectantly, tilting their heads so that they could focus one eye directly on my face.
The massive birds stepped right on my feet with their sharp yellow claws, and when I foolishly wore sandals, I had to run away from them. They pursued me. Even at the height of their enthusiasm, they seemed gentle, but when I peeked over my shoulder and saw those huge yellow feet reaching forward in great strides, I felt like I was running from a flock of trolls. I had to laugh.
Towards the end of the summer, my friend provided foster care for young black lab that was so energetic its body curled and lept like a banner on a gusty day. It joyously chased after the turkeys, and they responded by fluffing up the feathers on their huge impressive chests and mounting short, purposeful strikes at the dog, which retreated. The big puppy was too giddy to remember being chased and was soon after them again. The turkeys held their own.
The turkeys made the most amazing sounds as well. Before they really learned to "gobble," they made rich trills that sounded almost like water. I had never heard anything like this before, and I felt as though I were standing in a rain forest listening to an exotic bird song instead of doing some farm chores in the land of corn and soybeans.
People say turkeys are dumb, and I believe that our domesticated birds might lack some survival skills. Still, when I was around them, I had a sense that these birds have a variety of wisdom that is so old that we cannot easily relate to it. I could hear it in their rich calls and see it in their strange, mask-like faces. My heart feels richer because I spent time with them.
We have wild turkeys all over the neighborhood where we live, Elizabeth! — dozens of them. They wander across streets and through yards, going from one patch of woods to the next, and roost in the trees at night. Watching them cope with people, cars, kids, dogs, cats, raccoons, and other wildlife, I can see that they are limited in what they can do, but they do not seem dumb to me. They take excellent care of their chicks. And when a new thing appears, they will size it up, decide how much they can push it or how much they should yield to it, and deal with it accordingly. They make good neighbors.
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