Throwing Down The Gauntlet

He wears the regal name with such pride, you’d think the Queen of England knighted him herself. 

Sir Thomas Turkey, squire of the vast, pastured green and all who inhabit therein. Thus was he named upon adoption. Thus doth he perceive the expansive property as entirely his. Thus deludeth he himself. Verily.

For a critter who showed up in this world dressed only in pinfeathers, he sure loves puffing himself up to his full stature—all eighteen inches of it—while strutting around the back acreage.  He carries himself with such an air, you’d think he personally planted the grassy field himself. He’s no gentleman farmer, though. Sometimes he’s just plain mean. He chases away the three little pigs by using his beak to jab them in the ham hocks. Then, in flamboyant malevolence, he takes a run at the ducks, even flustering Queen Penelope with his bad manners. I once saw him grab one of her minions in his tiny mouth, carrying Daffy around like a bird trophy until she got dizzy. Then he dropped her cold, like a bored boyfriend. Ducks always walk like they’re dizzy, though, so maybe it didn’t hurt her feelings too much.

Sir Thomas can be a bully in the barnyard.

I was afraid of him for a while, especially after Katy worried about him developing spurs, but he doesn’t scare me anymore. Not since he snuck up beside me once and did his mating dance. He’s kind of a weirdo. This bird, for all his boasting, is still pubescent. He looks like an adult, but he’s only half grown. Nevertheless, once those sharp appendages appeared on the backs of his forked feet, Katy warned the kids that if he ever runs at them the way he does the other animals, he’ll find himself the guest of honor at the dinner table.

So far, he hasn’t threatened any of us. He thinks he’s a people. And I’m pretty sure he’s convinced the other inhabitants of his kingdom are his competition. Like I said, this bird flirts with us.

I don’t know whether to feel flattered or offended.

One night a couple of months ago, my son-in-law, Dan, and his daughter, Allie, brought their guitars out to a fire pit on the far side of the pasture, pulled up a couple of chairs, and played a few songs together under the stars. Suddenly, Sir Thomas, puffed up full tilt with tail feathers on high alert, began weaving in and out around Dan’s feet, pacing between the two musicians. Then, right on cue, he gobbled in time to the music. It was no accident. Dan and Allie repeated the Irish folk song and Tom the Turkey did it again. He likes country music, too, which doesn’t surprise me at all. He’s a natural at yodeling.

The boy’s got skills. And rhythm. And a sneaky ace up his sleeve in case Katy ever tries to make good on that threat of hers. Seriously—who’s gonna eat a musical prodigy for supper?

As talented as Sir Thomas is, though, his favorite thing remains terrorizing the rest of the flock. He hates the dogs, too, although in that case the feeling is mutual. Whenever I stand near the back fence, Brody at my side, Tom body slams himself against the gate while Brody snarls and bares his teeth, returning the insult, bark for gobble.

I think they’re both trying to protect me from the other. Again, not really sure what to make of that.

Every day, the possibility loomed that Tom the Turkey would go too far and wind up as an appetizer. Until the day the girls showed up. Two naturally curly blondes and a couple of redheads, neighbors from the south, they sauntered out across the pasture like they owned the place. Which did not sit well with our favorite turkey. Tom was not impressed. Accepting the challenge, he snapped his tail feathers into position. Then, tucking his red wattle in tight against his arrogant chest, he took deliberate steps toward the intruders, determined to make it clear he was lord of this estate and they’d be wise to curtsy in his honor.

They.Did.Not.Bow.

They.Did.Not.Curtsy.

See, the gals were all related. You don’t mess with a mass of women. Especially not the redheads.

“Mom!” Allie’s little sister, Jules, yelled from the kitchen window where she was watching the showdown. “The sheep are headbutting Tom!”

We all crowded in to witness the impossible as it went down beyond the fencing around the pasture. Sir Thomas stood in the open where we could see him, facing his hidden opponents who stood on the other side of the barn, out of our view. He took two steps toward a harem of wooly women, flew backwards into the air, and fell on his pride in the ducky doo doo.

It was awesome.

“You go, girls!” we cheered as Tom dusted himself off and went after them again, determined to retain his role as master of the pasture.

“They got him again!” someone laughed, and we doubled over in hysterics as tail feathers blew off and unseen forces threw him back another ten feet again. He’d finally met his match. The sheep, a gift from a neighbor who is moving, had taken him on, face to wattle, and won.

It was a great day for women’s lib.

And duck and chicken lib.

Even piggy lib.

Shoulder to shoulder, forming an impenetrable woolen wall, the four sister-sheep held their ground, stared down the intimidating turkey, and made it clear that he was no longer king of the castle and would not be pushing them around. Outnumbered four to one, Tom brushed it all off like it was his idea, turned tail, and trotted off across the pasture.

I learned a lot watching the standoff that day.

• 1.      One good head butt can put a bully in his place. Or two.
• 2.      Hold your ground until he gets the message.
• 3.      Co-existing doesn’t mean you have to be a pushover.
• 4.      Animals are better at solving conflicts than people are.
• 5.      Heroes come in all shapes and sizes.
• 6.      Being a sheep doesn’t mean you don’t have confidence.
• 7.      Once a turkey, always a turkey.

Sir Thomas Turkey still struts around the pasture. He still body slams the gate when the dogs get too close. He still does that weird mating dance whenever we're around. And he’s still a musical prodigy—if you’re into yodeling.

But he steers clear of those sheep. He may be arrogant, but he’s not stupid.

He’s still missing some tail feathers.