Farmer in Fall
A young man came knocking at my door yesterday afternoon. His knock wasn't really necessary as both of the indoor dogs and the large outside dog had already rushed to the front door barking their warnings and welcome. The fellow looked to be properly intimidated, but stood his ground nevertheless.
"Yes?" I asked. "Can I help you?"
"Do you have turkeys?" He stammered in response.
"Yes, I do. Three of them." I suddenly became concerned and looked past the skinny twenty-something to the driveway where the turkeys had been sunning themselves earlier in the day. The birds were nowhere in sight. My turkeys, a breed called "bronze-breasted," bear a resemblance to wild turkeys.
"Oh," he said. "I was driving by and saw the turkeys and thought if they weren't yours, maybe you wouldn't mind if I hunted them. It's bow season for turkeys, you know."
"No, I didn't know that. The turkeys are mine. They are pets. I don't want anyone hunting on my lawn."
"Oh. Well, thank you anyway." Then he got back in his truck and drove off.
I sort of liked the kid, an honest youth who presented as a bit simple, but I didn't like him to the point that I would let him dart about the yard playing Robin Hood. A neighbor lad had been down a couple of weeks ago to warn me about the impending turkey season. He suggested that I buy some small clothing and dress the turkeys so that people would realize they aren't wild. That neighbor is a bit on the simple side as well.
All of this sort of puts me in mind of Clint Eastwood's menacing line from Gran Torino, "Get off of my lawn!"
So, before any of you big, brave turkey hunters go cruising past my place, real slow, hanging out of your truck window with your little bow and arrow, know this. I have a counter-plan, and I will protect my birds. So I guess the question you have to answer is this. "Hey Punk, do you feel lucky? Well, do you?"
Come on. Make my day!