I’m not going to eat them. My turkeys were an impulse buy—the kind of snap decision that, if I had still been living in the city, might have amounted to a pair of impractical fancy shoes, but here in the country more often yields a shrub I don’t have room for or a superfluous fowl. I never wanted a turkey. Unlike chickens—which I thought of as useful and amusing even before I had some—turkeys had no appeal for me. I was under the impression, as most people are, that they were fantastically, mindblowingly stupid. Their eggs have never had good press. Even though their feathers are beautiful and their posture so upright and serious that they look like barnyard barristers, turkey faces—fleshy and red with caruncles and wattles—are almost vulgar-looking; it’s hard to think of them as attractive.
But then I visited a friend who had Royal Palm turkeys—a heritage breed, too small to be raised commercially, almost extinct, and striking, with white feathers trimmed in black. Unlike megafarm turkeys, which have been engineered to have breasts so disproportionately huge that the birds can’t stand up when they’re full-grown, Royal Palms are athletic and lively and curious. They followed us around like puppies, and whenever they thought they were being addressed, they would chatter back (they do really say “gobble gobble,” by the way). It was hilarious and irresistible. When my friend hatched some of her flocks’ eggs, I took four of the babies, tossed them in with my chickens (they peacefully coexist but don’t mingle), and watched them grow and grow. Along the way, I’ve become a turkey apologist—I am always defending them when I’m asked about things like whether they’re so dumb they drown in the rain (apocryphal, as far as I know). No one believes me when I say they’re a delight.
I am having turkey for Thanksgiving, but not my turkeys. My four Toms (yes, all four of the poults I got from my friend turned out to be male) are not exactly pets, but I can’t think of another term that quite suits them. My husband calls them “landscape animals,” which is close, but still not right. Outdoor friends? Wards? Poultry associates? Or perhaps, at least at this time of year, Not Dinner."
Gobbled by Susan Orlean /The New Yorker
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