LIFE WITH AN UNGRATEFUL TURKEY

I’ve been taking care of this jerk of a turkey for over 6 1/2 years. As I write this, I have to check my math. Surely I’ve had her for decades. I used to call her Little Girl. Now I just call her Mean Girl.

Mean Girl is the last remaining bird from a flock of six chickens and four Heritage Turkeys we took in from our son when they were 2–3 years old, hauling them in our truck from Ohio to Iowa, one species at a time. (We have a history of taking in our kid’s “pets,” including a feral cat and even a horse, but I digress). Mean Girl is a Narragansett, as were Grandpa and Big Girl. Dumb Girl was a Blue Slate, I think.

Part of my thinking in taking the birds was to try to get a handle on the whole farm-to-table thing. Never happened. Between caring for these birds and getting to know their unique personalities, I’ve had a change of heart.

I am now a vegetarian.

At first, we kept the turkeys at our acreage, creatively named, “The Land.” I worried they would take off and we’d never see them again. If only. They followed us everywhere. Roosting in the trees as they did in Ohio? Why bother, when there is a cozy porch railing to settle onto and poop on?

Or, in the case of our first casualty (Dumb Girl -third from left in pic), roosting in the lowlands near the river — where the coyotes hang. After Death #1, we foolishly encouraged them to roost on the porch railing after “Tree-Roosting-in-Iowa” lessons failed. At some point, we lost Big Girl. At least that’s what my husband said. I only saw a few feathers. He assured me she was gone.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“She’s lost parts necessary for life,” he responded.

“N’ough said.”

After Death #2, we built a coop under the porch for Grandpa and Little Girl to spend their evenings, or all day, if we didn’t visit them. All was peaceful for a time, with Grandpa strutting a full array of tail feathers until the day our shy dog leaped over his fence and gave chase. So many feathers. More than with Big Girl. Oh, the body parts he must be missing! But no. Grandpa returned “mostly” intact. Now his “full” plumage only made a ninety-degree arc. Grandpa eventually dropped dead of old age inside the coop. After Death #3, Little Girl, who audibly mourned the loss of her friend, came into town to live with the chickens.

The survivor of all the turkeys, Little Girl thought she was pretty tough, even though she came away from Death #2 with a limp. She took it upon herself to dominate her new, smaller sisters, so we kept her separated for a time. After a number of successful playdates, she joined the chick flock 24/7. Little Girl was never violent but she was a bully. Grabbing treats, chasing, or pecking, this is how she earned a new name of “Mean Girl.”

Mean Girl has had a less exciting, but safer, life in town. Some mornings she makes enough noise to “wake the chickens,” as my dad used to say. That means, “Feed me. Feed me now.” Or, it might mean, “There’s a stray orange kitten in our pen.” She never seems to mind when a mouse drowns in the water bowl, though. Anyhoo, she used to watch her sisters fly for bananas or pump their tails while swinging on a bar. Never one to join in, Mean Girl instead spends her days courting the unseen neighbor dog or cooling her rear near the fan. Mean Girl especially enjoys being misted on hot days which is not only necessary but also brings out the blues and reds in her head so beautifully. I had the neighbor girl convinced this was a magic trick. After that, she’d come over and ask if she could water the turkey.

I have chicken stories too but will leave the details for another time. Basically, the flock thinned due mostly to old age, but also to a raccoon murder and a group attack. And then there was one — and Mean Girl. This last chicken? Mean Girl 2. Apparently, it’s survival of the meanest, not the fittest, in my bird world.

These two survivors got along pretty well, enjoying a large area built for multiple birds. This past year, Mean Girl 2 stopped laying eggs. Original Mean Girl started picking on her, so I intervened. Ugh. While Mean Girl was probably picking on a weak bird, Mean Girl did not cause Mean Girl 2’s problem. No. Her issue was something I didn’t know existed or could exist in a live bird— “flystrike.” You’ll want to Google it. Hands down, the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Even typing the word triggers bad memories. But I did what needed to be done — cleaning all the “stuff” in her vent. Put her in a comfy dog kennel with a fan, gave her drops of water by syringe, and hovered. How did she thank me? She died. That night. Damn bird.

 

Now it’s just Mean Girl and me. During the most depressing days of this never-ending pandemic, knowing she needs to be checked on is sometimes the only thing that gets me moving. I only tend to her once a day now because she never leaves her nighttime area. I periodically trim her nails. In the past, I’ve taped one toe to keep it from curling under and poking her foot. She had a bad case of “bumblefoot” this spring. Another new thing I never knew existed. The extensive treatments she needed, which included soaking, picking, and applying pine tar, only made our fractious relationship worse.

I’ve considered whether or not to put her down more than once. She is more unbalanced than ever, sometimes using her wing as a crutch, but she doesn’t appear to be suffering and her appetite is still good. As with any old individual, I worry about her quality of life. For the past several weeks, she’s barely left the inside part of the coop. She just stares out little openings — all day. At about ten years old, she’s one very old bird.

I basically take ridiculously good care of Mean Girl, and how does she thank me? By staying as far away from me as she can. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be in our pandemic bubble. One day I was chatting to her as I was adding hay and checking on her ventilation. When I took a closer look, for a moment, I thought perhaps I had just tended a dead bird. Nope. She’s fine. Just socially isolating.

We’re in another Arctic Blast. More than once since the birds were under my care, we had actual temps of -25 F. That first winter all the turkeys were still living in the “wild.” After getting snarky answers from kids about how I could keep the turkeys warm, I learned that extra protein during the day is all they need. That’s when I first started cooking up ground beef for them.

Mean Girl now lives in a horse-blanket-covered coop with hay and a 250-watt heat lamp, so even though it’s -13 F, we’ve got this. In addition to her high protein feed and calcium pellets, every day I bring out some cooked ground beef, warm sweet corn, blueberries, bananas laced with Vitamin B (to prevent toe curl), and the occasional baby aspirin for whatever aches and pains she has.

She’s taught me a thing or two along the way about survival. I’m not sure all the lessons are positive, but in the end, she is indeed, the last bird standing.

I think we’re coming to the end of an era, as I have no plans to take in any more birds. I don’t think I like her and she clearly doesn’t like me. Each day I think I’ll find her dead. So, why do I work so hard to keep her fed and content? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because I’ve learned that all creatures, even crabby old turkeys, deserve the best life possible. And when the time comes, I know I’ll be sad, but I will remember her antics and the antics of her fowl sisters and brother forever.