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A Thanksgiving Tale of Turkey
I met Frank several years ago at the local feed store when I went to pick up an order of mallard ducklings. On impulse I purchased a trio of baby White Holland turkeys. The ducks thrived but the turkeys died - except for one. All alone now, the survivor came to be called Turkey Frank. It soon became apparent that he was lonely and depressed so I moved him in with the baby mallards figuring that some companionship would cheer him up. The ducklings immediately accepted Turkey Frank as one of their own. They had much in common and all enjoyed leisurely spring days gorging on cracked corn and pooping. By June Frank and the ducklings had molted and passed into young adulthood. Now able to more or less fend for themselves, they spent their days freed from the confines of their pen. My happily heterogeneous flock excitedly explored the yard and quickly became proficient at performing their job of eliminating buggy pests from lawn and garden. One fateful day the flock made a life affirming discovery. They had wandered to the far corner of the property and waddled upon the Catfish Pond. They sniffed, tasted, and tentatively waded into the wonderful wetness. Suddenly, as if on cue, the flock burst like scattershot across the still surface in a water churning delirium of duckish delight. To my surprise, in the midst of the frenzy was Frank. With un-webbed feet thrashing and wings splashing he too water-partied. But, unlike his buddies, he didn't take to it like the proverbial "duck to water". For Frank's excitement was more hysteric than ecstatic as he expended twice the effort to swim half the distance as his buddies. Concerned for his safety, I lured everyone back into the pen with some corn and hoped that Frank's aquatic skills would quickly improve - or better yet, he'd realize he was a turkey and stay out of the pond. The next day, I again granted Frank and the flock free range. Even if he didn't walk like a duck or talk like a duck, Frank truly believed himself to be a duck which annoyed me for some reason. But tolerance is a virture so if he wanted to be a duck that was his business - however he was on his own as far as the pond was concerned. Since I refused to be a turkey lifeguard, it was (literally) sink or swim for Turkey Frank. I had other things to worry about and happily ignored his adventures for most of the summer.
Tolerance aside, it was creepy having a species-confused turkey running around the place so I gave Frank to the lady who runs the feed store. She had a small turkey flock so Frank could finally enjoy the companionship of his own kind. Since her birds inhabit a pasture right alongside the main road I was able to monitor Frank's social progress whenever I drove into town.
When I came across these old pictures of Turkey Frank I felt compelled to share his story and the lesson he taught me. I'm not exactly sure what I learned but perhaps it is this: No matter how much you think you're a duck, people will still eat you on Thanksgiving if you're really a turkey. Whatever the lesson, I always feel a tinge of guilt each year at this time. I console myself with the fact that turkeys are supposed to end up on someone's holiday table and to be sure that is a way more festive and nobler fate than accidental drowning. My conscience is eased when I imagine Frank in the afterlife gracefully gliding across a heavenly Catfish Pond at the head of his web-footed flock. So every Thanksgiving, because of Frank, I give thanks for who (and what) I am and for all that I have. I also want to say Rest in peace Turkey Frank, I'm sorry they ate you.
9/9/01; updated 11/18/01, 11/20/02, 11/17/03, 11/26/03
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