Little Plucker

I thought that we had finally come to an armistice between canine and poultry.  A peace had endured to the point of several of the cockerels that had avoided the last round of butchering were free.  My hands got too damned cold and my friends whiz-bang chicken plucker had a belt blowout during the processing.  They had lucked into a reprieve from their immediate death sentence.  I cast them out of the cozy confines of the coop to promote poultry peace.  They were paroled to the barn and dog free hog run.

The parolees had thus far made good on the terms of release.  In the process the dogs, new puppy and poultry had become less and less concerned with each others business.  Life was becoming downright tolerable for all involved and it appeared that the former moniker, Chickenkill Hill, was fading into an unpleasant corner of my memories.

We had gotten into the habit of letting our blue slate turkey out for a strut.  Goober would come out to great visitors and entertain kids.  He would follow my wife and me into the garden and all around the house.

After a long day of cleaning and preening the whole damned place in preparation for our Mother’s Day event I sat with my head in my hands looking at the weather forecast on the computer.  Tired and oblivious to what was happening less than thirty yards on the opposite side of the monitor.

I can only assume that the puppy was in a playful chase of Goober when she caught him.  I only assume that the instincts of tens of thousands of years dogdom kicked in.  Their fairly new found docile and flippant attitude towards strutting tom and scratching cockerels turned into a full blown plucking.

Not a mauling and murder.  I thought that was the case when I realized a ruckus was at hand.  I was surprised to find three dogs sitting at what looked like a really fresh turkey dinner.  A nearly plucked turkey, with his head laying under paw.  The whole lawn area between home and barn was strewn with turkey plumage.  I was certain he was dead.  I ran out hollering at the dogs and thinking with every step that Goober had meet his end.

He was alive.  I picked him up and took him back in the coop.  I shooed all the other birds into the run and shut the coop off to provide some security.  I had yet to really look him over till I was assured he would not come to any further harm by fang or beak.

After looking him over I found a couple of small puncture wounds on the thighs and a couple of skin tears from where he had been so rudely plucked.  I had my doubts that he would survive the night.  That there might have been some internal injury or that shock would have just shut him down.  I left him to rest.

About an hour later I returned to check on him and he was on his feet!  I was almost certain I would have found a dead bird.  He looks like a drunken, broke and horny sailor after a nightlong ass whooping from stumbling into a bar full of pissed off transvestite Philippino hookers but he’s still sucking air.

Rough but breathing.

**Sadly Goober passed last night.

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4 Comments

  1. Ed said,

    May 14, 2014 at 8:28 AM

    Turkeys must have nine lives… well at least a second one anyway!

    • Woody said,

      May 16, 2014 at 4:54 AM

      I was shocked that he was in such good shape considering the battle scene.

  2. May 15, 2014 at 8:31 PM

    That is one tough turkey. Hopefully he won’t be so tough when you eat him.

    • Woody said,

      May 16, 2014 at 4:52 AM

      Goober won’t make our table. He has been my daughters pet for far too long for us to have a smoked bird for dinner.


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