On Turkeys in My Backyard...

A family of turkeys lives in my backyard.

As well as the backyards of several neighbors in the immediate vicinity. Turkeys are a common sight in this part of my town (we refer to it as "the sticks"), but this is the first time I can remember the birds choosing my backyard as their new stomping grounds. The whole family is present: A guy (presumably the father, unless turkeys have their version of 'Jerry Springer'), a girl, which I'm confident is the mother based on the way the several little ones are drawn to her like the sole source of light on a pitch black night, and, of course, the several little ones I have just mentioned.

I'm routinely fascinated not by the turkeys themselves, but by how humans seem so fascinated by them. My parents, in particular, always seem to know exactly when and where they are in our yard. "Come and look at the turkeys!" they routinely shout whenever I'm in the kitchen with them. Um...No thanks. They are of no real concern to me, personally. On only one occasion can I remember actually stopping what I was doing in order to examine their actions.

It happened on a party cloudy Tuesday afternoon. Before the little ones were strutting about, dipping their heads to the earth to pick up seeds and worms (I'm assuming that's what they were after), there appeared to live a group of adult females that traveled together, and were appropriately flanked by a single (possibly perverted? No, horny. Probably just horny...) male that stalked about with his feathers in full bloom. I couldn't help but think of Glenn Quagmire from 'Family Guy' ('heh, heh, gobble, gobble).

So on this Tuesday afternoon, I'm finishing up a delicious ham and lettuce wrap at the kitchen table, when, out of the corner of my left eye, I notice a great, blurry thing streak by the kitchen window that sits to my left, overlooking the side yard and the pool. Curious, and slightly alarmed because this thing looked rather large (larger, than, say, a hawk...I'm assuming at this point that it's a bird), I move forward towards the back door that leads out onto my deck, where I see a full-grown female turkey prancing about in the fenced-in portion of my backyard that is reserved for my at-times overly aggressive dog. Fortunately my dog was inside at the time, and, double fortunately, he seems completely uninterested in turkeys. Good thing for the turkeys.

Apparently turkeys can fly. That's what I've been told, and while I've done zero research on the matter, my own theory is that turkeys can't exactly fly, but can instead flap their wings in an aggressive manner, launch themselves from the ground, and hover for several seconds before landing awkwardly back on the unforgiving surface of the earth. I theorize this because that's all I've ever seen them do. I've never actually seen them take flight the way I've seen ducks or regular birds (sparrows, pigeons, robins, etc.) do it. Have you ever seen a flock of turkeys flying in a perfect 'V' formation in the sky, the way you see geese do it every day in the summer? Yeah, me neither.

But now I sort of have an issue. There's a turkey stuck in the fenced-in area of my back yard. But, me being the intelligent, problem-solving individual that I am, I remind myself that there is a gate that can be opened, allowing for safe passage in and out of this area. So, I move to open the back door, when I realize that, by walking out onto the deck and down the stairs which leads into the fenced-in area, I will be sneaking up behind this poor bird and will probably spook her beyond belief, and in my very few observations of wild turkeys, they seem like very skittish creatures (much like most wild animals). So I decide to head down the main staircase in my house to the bottom floor, exit through the garage and approach this fenced-in area -- which now resembles a topless cage at a zoo -- head on. I approach slowly, hoping, in some way to convey to the turkey that I mean no harm. But then I think about it and realize that all of the predators turkeys flee from probably begin their hunts by approaching them slowly, hoping not to be noticed. Well, sprinting towards the fence in a crazed manner does not seem like a better alternative, so I keep to my cat burglar approach.

The turkey, at this point, is now pacing back and forth in the area, from one side of the fence to the other. When I get to within roughly five feet of the gate, my ears are greeted by a great fluttering of wings as the turkey charges toward my side of the fence (in a crazed manner similar to the one I was hoping to avoid on my approach just seconds earlier) and rises up and over it, landing safely on the other side and proceeding to sprint towards our flower/vegetable garden in the back portion of my yard, where it takes "shelter" behind a large batch of flowers with white pedals.

Problem averted, right? Not completely. I proceeded back to the kitchen and decided to take one last glance out the side window, just in case. Sure enough another female turkey is stalking around a young tree (what kind of tree it is, I do not know) that rests in approximately the center of the side yard. Only, this turkey looks slightly disheveled, is sporting a faint limp, and, quite frankly, looks incapable of "flight." It looked like it had just been caught and released from a burlap sack.

My fear was that it would attempt to imitate its female chum and take "flight" over my pool and into the back yard. Only I had a sneaking suspicion that this one wouldn't be able to make it over my pool, the way its cohort did. Now, I might have theories about turkeys being able to fly, but I hold no such thoughts on whether or not they can swim. So, I'm now terrified that it will attempt to fly over my pool, falter in mid-air, and crash land in the body of water, where it will squawk and thrash in fear and pain and eventually die a very slow, wet, and painful death. Moreover, if this were to happen, I would have no idea how to save it, and I doubt animal control or the police would arrive in time to take the appropriate measures. I doubt I could just wade into the pool, lift it safely out of harm's way and toss it over the edge to freedom on the other side of the yard. The turkey would most likely see me approaching it as some sort of underwater monster with lethal intentions. Which would only encourage it to thrash that much harder. And a turkey's feet aren't exactly harmless. Whether it has talons or something else attached, I am not sure, but I knew that if it did land in my pool and I did attempt to save it, it would try to carve me up like Leatherface from 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.'

I chose, ultimately, to leave the poor bird alone. At first I considered heading out to the side yard to chase it around the pool into the back yard to safety (assuming no foxes or coyotes were lying dormant, waiting for their opportunity to strike), but then I thought that rather than run around the pool, in its frantic attempt to escape my clutches (right, because I was totally aiming to catch it...Five whole months before Thanksgiving) it might attempt to "fly" over the pool and falter, which would lead to the events I just described above. So, I left it alone. I went back to my computer, and when I looked a half hour later, it was gone. Mercifully. Dead squirrels have been found in my pool before, and lifting those things out with the skimmer is disturbing enough. Nevermind having a much larger and heavier turkey to get rid of.