by cheri block
In my ongoing efforts to appreciate wild turkeys instead of revile them, I took my camera out on Thursday to view them through a new lens. In fact, my lens is not new, but I now choose to look upon these birds as nature’s precious creatures whose presence in my life will not go away. I mean, whose presence in my life is here to stay, God bless them.
In the center of our abused lawn–once a lush green carpet frequented by playful squirrels and red-breasted robins –stands a small cluster of wild turkeys, headed up this morning by the two creatures, I mean majestic males, you see in the center. Note what the hens are doing: working busily, scratching up the blades, looking for worms, their backs turned away so as not to hear the conversation going on between Thing One and Thing Two, I mean between Mario and John.
Mario: Now that Thanksgiving is over, we can concentrate on production instead of reduction of our numbers.
John: Good point. All of our apoplectic flight at the sight of that damn yellow Labrador and her owner, you know, the woman who comes out of her house every morning with her coffee mug, the one dressed in her old robe, staring at us with hatred in her eyes? Like I said, all of this fleeing and flying has distracted me from my primary purpose in life.
Mario: Which primary purpose?
John: Mario, primary means the first. You cannot have more than one primary purpose and in our case, it is control, maintained by our good looks and sexual attractiveness.
Granted, sexual attractiveness is in the eye of the beholder. You will observe here that Mario and John are now pulling out the all the stops (and other things hidden under that fan of feathers) in their ongoing efforts to get back on track. You will also notice that their hens have fled.
Mario: I, Mario Berlumacaroni, am going to rustle me up some hens!
John: I, John F. Kennebunkport will now reveal what that F. in my name means!
I must interrupt this stimulating conversation to point out the obvious.
Mario and John are not conjoined twins although their intentions are identical. Here they are demonstrating the stupidity, I mean intelligence, of their species by melding into one turkey, in the hopes that the hens on the hill will be attracted to this super-turkey approaching, with everything on his body puffed up and out, all in sync.
Mario and John: Oh, Echo…Desiree, Natalie, Ivana, Marilyn, JayLo, oh ladies, here I (we) come in all of my (our) sexual splendor. Where are you? Don’t hide from me (us).
The ladies have split. They know a fake when they see one.
Mario: John, we must separate if we are to score today. Since I have watched the Judge here on the Rancho– he too in all his splendorific feather-puffing– I know that hens are attracted to toms that drive pick-up trucks, so I am heading over to the Judge’s truck.
Mario: Oh girls! girls! girls! Take a look, a good look at the specimen before you. Yeah. The one by the pick-up truck.
Mario: Girls, stop what you are doing and just look west at the man who will soon father your chicks. Girls. Just look around. Do you see me, a feathery inflated stud, as erect as a young first lieutenant about to meet the commander? Girls?
Mario: I’m over here, ladies, the one ready to go. Girls?