Thundering Tom’s Salvation
We never knew where he came from, a muscular bronzed specimen of wild turkey who took up residence with our yard birds of two skinny white domestic hen turkeys, a trio of waddling Kaki Camble meat ducks and six laying hens who would also become chicken pot pie hens. The morning was split with explosive gobbles that earned him the name “Thundering Tom”. With his strutting, puffing and cutting “pshaws!” he was the picture of mindless vanity. All that was lacking was a red carpet. However, he was the leader and the other birds thrived under his tutelage. The turkey hens even adopted some of his swagger, answering Thunder with their own cuts, putts and purrs. He was clearly the boss of the coop and all thrived under his direction. Lesser fowl would stand by snatching scraps as Tom knocked corn cobs (and mice!) out of the meter-high open corn crib or tore open a dry cow pie for waste grain.
Though he never got used to fast movements, old TT tamed down and was frequently underfoot, studying us with the same intensity he usually reserved for peering skyward to warn of the occasional eagle, hawk or helicopter. Thunder joined the others in picking spilled grain out of the tool barn, and seemed to teach his companions some swagger and lingo as all of their sizes, vocabularies and feather sheens grew over the summer. The barn cats lived in eternal fear of him.
Thunder was an inveterate thief of anything colorful with a particular penchant for colorful ink pens, twist ties, and even the .410 shotgun shells on the lower shelf of the shed’s shelving. Uncle Dewar put up with his antics knowing that in due time, this wild bird would make a fine holiday centerpiece.
Each morning all the birds would race out the open pen door for the freedom of garden and pasture; the ducks would dabble under the horse trough while the chickens scratched worms and chased fall grasshoppers . . . fattening, fattening, fattening toward their delectable demise. Then dutifully return to the pen for the night when summoned with a bit of grain; Thanksgiving was only three days away!
Something odd happened on the afternoon of October 9, just days before Thanksgiving when Uncle Dewar would call them in from the pasture for their last supper and quick trip to the freezer. Across the pasture a colorful mob of birds following Thunder were moving steadily toward the distant trees. This would not do! Uncle called, rattled the grain can and was roundly ignored by all but the food-whore ducks who had their own society. Onward the field fugitives marched toward freedom though.
In desperation, Uncle Dewar reluctantly lifted the little break-action skunk/snake/possum shotgun off the hooks over the door and prepared to convert Tom’s feathered glory to drumsticks alongside cranberries and stuffing but when he reached for the box of shells, he found it empty, cartridges had been previously buried in the hay by Tom. As the motley feather crew reached the forest edge, Thunder ripped out a satisfied gobble that sounded for all the world like maniacal laughter.
It would be a very different Thanksgiving dinner for us and the ducks.
