Sunday I moved Ms. Turkey Lurkey from her shared pen with Helen, the blind duck, and George, her mate. Well, move makes it sound like I opened the pen and she sashayed right out and to the coop. She didn't. And I have the bruises to prove it.
Jane jokingly remarked that I sure had problems with escaping animals; however, such was not the case with Ms. Lurkey. She was determined to remain with her friends. She didn't care if it was wet; she didn't care if the pen was small. She was happy and settled, thank you very much. She had decorated and didn't want to relocate.
When I entered the pen, I reached down to lift her, as I do all the birds, with her wings penned against her body so she wouldn't hurt herself. Yeah. Right. I couldn't lift her! Seems that her svelte figure belied the fact that she is a stout 50-plus pounder. Yep. All 50-plus pounds of her. I know because I can lift a 50 pound feed sack with one arm. I couldn't budge her.
One wing sprang free as I attempted to struggle to lift her. Honestly, I felt as though I was one of the denied Knights trying to pull Excalibur from the stone. I tried to re-pen her wing, but she flogged the tar out of me, striking me cleanly on the jaw, causing me to not only let go, but to see stars as I fell against the pen!
She strutted off, making her sweet little chirps as she waddled away. I spit blood on the ground, rubbed my injured check, and tried to plan my next attack.
Again, I walked slowly to her. She turned her back, luring me into the confidence that she was going easy this time. I reached down. She nailed me again, slinging me against the pen one more time.
She waddled off, chirping happily as I again spit blood on the ground.
Don was watching all this from the safety of OUTSIDE the pen. As he still can't use his right arm, he was trying to give moral support.
"Maybe if you try from the other side?" he offered.
Silly city boy! I thought. She can see from both eyes.
I pondered her a minute longer, trying to find her weak point. Then, I remembered my classical literature.
Slowly, I again walked up to her turned back. But this time, instead of reaching for her, I snatched her by the ankles and turned her head over heels and lifted her. Barely.
She flogged the air, turning to strike me. I just held her higher and proudly strode to the chicken coop. She yelled; she threatened; she flogged. I held tight. I didn't dare let go!
When we finally got to the coop, I set her face down in the dirt.
"Here you are!" I called cheerfully. "Even turkeys have Achilles tendons, eh?"
She rolled over and gave me the stink eye. Then, she fluffed herself up, trying to regain her lost dignity, and coolly eyed the dumbfounded hens. Curious, they carefully hopped over toward her, only to be repelled by her flapping wings.
Don't you know the chickens lived hard that night?