I live in a the suburbs of Boston. The area in which I live sits nestled at the apex of four towns, three of which have a lot farmland and open space. Wildlife is rampant. It is a common occurrence for traffic to be halted as a wild turkey – or six – decide to cross from the farm behind my house to the woods on the other side of the busy commuting road. More often than not, when I look out the doors to my back deck, I will find the turkeys that live in my woods perched up on our stone wall.
In the nearly five years we’ve been in this house, I’ve come to accept them as a sort of family extension. Turkeys are not small birds, however. They are tall and imposing looking, especially if they are annoyed. They move fast when they want. There have been many times I’ve been out in the yard with my son and had to come into the house as they decided to strut through the front yard and congregate around The Boy’s swing set. I do not want to mess with an angry bird and its beak.
After I had dropped off The Boy at school, I heard something on the radio that made me laugh aloud. Of course, the newscaster prefaced his report with the information that everyone was okay, so that made it all right to laugh. In a neighboring town, a turkey flew through a window into a school bus filled with children.
Can you imagine? You’re riding along, chatting with your friends, minding your own business and suddenly a 20-pound bird – pissed off bird, I’m sure – lands on the seat next to you or on your lap? The visual alone is enough to make me snarf my coffee.