I had seen an ad in the local paper – turkeys, range of ages and breeds, all must go!
Having been on the lookout for a turkey or two, I drove the few towns down the highway, stopping excitedly at the local IGA’s in search of boxes suitable for turkey transportation (as it turned out they weren’t suitable at all but that is another story).
I arrived at the address given, car a hopeful jumble of cardboard, and had no doubt I was in the right place for there certainly were a great many turkeys living there. And when I say living there, I mean with the old bloke who had placed the ad, in his house. Actually it was not his house, but his late mother’s as he told me, or rather as I lip read, being unable to hear a thing for the cacophony of turkeys in the kitchen, set off into unstoppable gobbling by this stranger in their midst.
‘She left them all to me’, he yelled, ‘she loved them and I’m doing my best, but I have my own house! My own farm! And I can never get back there for all these damn turkeys! I’ve made up my mind. It’s time for them to go. Pick whichever ones you want. Got a box?’
Sensing the house turkeys were somehow off limits, we wandered slowly through the paddock as I got a feel for what was there and which I liked the look of.
‘How about that one?’ I said, ‘he looks nice’.
‘Oh!’, said the old bloke, as if surprised at my choice. ‘He was Mum’s favourite, I have to keep him’.
Rightyo.
‘How about this hen, the one with five half grown poults?’
‘Oh no, I accidentally closed the front door on her foot. She should stay’.
I get it, she’s actually a house turkey. And yes, I see now she is limping a bit.
‘How about this lovely bronze girl, and her brother?’
‘Er…they’re special, real good breeding stock, can’t sell those. Plus, they are best friends with the dog’.
Hmmm…now you mention it, there does seem to be a bond.
This continued on until nearly every turkey in that damn paddock had been picked and then eliminated for increasingly hilarious reasons. It wasn’t unenjoyable, this turkey dosie-doh, but in the end it was clear that if any were going to come home with me a different approach would be needed.
‘Um, so…maybe you should tell me which ones I can take?’
We did another circuit of the paddock, him in thoughtful silence. Finally, he looked up.
‘How about a duck?’
—-
As it turned out, I did end up leaving with a couple of turkeys that day, yes, and a duck (well, three).
Just six months ago I saw the same ad in the paper again, and smiled at the memory of that lovely old bloke, and his turkey travails. He loved those birds, and you know what? I think I know the feeling.