It is a well-known fact that ducks are the reincarnated souls of rampant alcoholics. My own flock of ducks bears this out. Made up of a strange crew of runners and East Indies, they are either very tall and multi colored, or tiny and so black as to be invisible. The ducks crept in slowly, almost without my notice, an egg there, a purchase there, and before long there was a flock. The chickens don’t seem to mind, except first thing in the morning. At that moment, when the first light of dawn shines on the pool, the ducks are overwhelmed. With avid joy they line up, jostling, politely, but still jostling, for their turn in the tub.

The tub was JP’s idea. He claims to dislike the poultry, but it is always he who comes up with some new invention for their comfort. One day I came home to find a large plastic tub installed in the corner of the poultry yard. Best of all, he had rigged it to be filled from one of the numerous springs that run endlessly about our property. The ducks stood around the large black tub like AA initiates that have blundered into a bar. Previous to this apparition, the closest thing they had come to open water was the tiny opening on the water fount.

It didn’t take long for them to figure out what the tub was all about. This of course, led to the chicken’s early morning dismay. Try as they might, each morning, they have to wait for the ducks to leap in and out multiple times, drown one another, quack madly, and otherwise act like the drunks they are. The chickens try to sneak in and get a drink and are periodically splashed or even pulled into the tub. The ducks have drowned multiple small chickens trying to initiate them into the wonders of swimming.

JP likes testing my theory regarding the ducks. I had returned home to find the ducks gently bobbing amongst sliced lemons. My husband had fed them lemons, limes, tiny onions, and chipotle peppers. The ducks responded by putting these gifts into the water. When I suggested lacing the tub with gin, however, he drew himself up and righteously stated that he would not waste good gin in this way. He should have met my grandmother. Pouring himself a gin and tonic, he continued with his story. Apparently he had found a box of odd spices from last year’s barbeque season, including whole dried chili peppers. Throwing the lot into the chicken yard, he was amused to see the ducks diving into the stuff. Either they have no ability to discriminate tastes, or are turned on by novelty. They shoveled up mouthfuls of dry rub, dehydrated garlic and onion, and of course, an assortment of peppers from hot to sweet. The lemons, limes and tiny onions went into the water. When I suggested he was pre-seasoning the birds he laughed, but the conversation was abruptly ended.

I have no trouble dispatching birds and then eating them. Usually I kill them at Margaret’s, and since they are mostly roosters, we either use them for dog food or soup stock. JP has nothing to do with it, and obviously did not appreciate my comment about the ducks. I have no designs on the ducks; I killed some ducks years ago, and found it terrible. The way that they twist their heads around on their oh so flexible necks to look you in the eye as you prepare to kill them is very troubling. Either way I enjoy these ducks. The angry turkey however, was under no such protection.

Pete is my beloved wild turkey. He believes that I am his hen and loves to parade about impressing me. There once was a second turkey, and a third. The third turkey went to Mia, a one Captain Morgan, whom I delivered on Christmas, intact and whole. Mia declared that the Captain was a hen and insisted that I made a terrible error. We had multiple phone calls regarding this situation. Ultimately the Captain began to gobble, solving the situation.

The second turkey, Jack, was a Bourbon Red, like his brother Captain Morgan. This is a smallish turkey, bright mahogany with white trim. They can be a bit skittish, but are good mothers. I have not yet been able to test this, as all the turkey eggs I have hatched out are male. Jack decided that he had to fight with me and also with Pete. Their fights were monumental. When two toms fight they lift off the ground and hurl themselves at one another, beating with both their wings and spurs. Sounds silly reading it on a page, but consider a tom turkey weighs in at 30-40 pounds, has a wingspan of over 5 feet, legs thick and hard as branches, and very sharp spurs several inches in length. Add to this a beak and an extremely sharp eye that includes both the ability to see in color and perceive depth. In fact, turkeys see as well as we do, and in a wrap around way that gives them an extraordinary panoramic view, good in a fight.

A turkey fight is like prizefighting, they take it so seriously, and they must, the right to create more turkeys is in the balance. In the morning, while the ducks are floundering in their hedonistic bath, the turkeys take up the fight. When I first saw Jurassic Park I knew that they must have looked at turkeys when they built the velociraptors. They circle and stalk, heads held at an unusual angle, twittering hostile threats. First they jump and feint, continuing to yelp and bark. None of their sounds are remotely bird like. If dinosaurs walk the earth, then certainly they walk in my backyard. Next the wings come up and the titans clash.

I could have lived with this if only they had not included me in their rituals. Each morning I loose the birds from their house. First the tiniest of the bantams run loose, squawking good morning and desperately trying to reach the water before the onslaught of the alcoholics. Then a few roosters self important and crowing. The best part is when one of the roosters is mowed down by the phalanx of ducks, headily waddling towards their source of pleasure. Sometimes a proper rooster will take back some and mount a smaller duck, but even in the midst of this odd cross species rape the duck will keep struggling towards the tub.

Happily I stand in the middle and cast a bit of scratch grain. It is early morning, and the chill air is welcome on my face. Waking up is hard for me, my neuralgia is in command of my body, and the poultry do make cheer me up. Slowly, the turkeys emerge, always graceful, like battleships. Scattered around them will be the standard chickens, high status hens first. When the turkey problem began it was Pete trying to drive me away from Jack. Initially I complied, to humor him. Soon this was not enough. The horror of me being in the same area as that scabrous Red Bourbon was more than he could handle. This led to the aforementioned fights. The day they decided to attack me as well, the passion of the moment overcame their reason, was the day that Jack got strung up.

My participation in the turkey fight left me with a black eye and deep gouges on my legs and arms. Even when I seized Jack by the legs and with great difficulty dragged him from the yard, Pete continued to attack us both with vigor. With Jack spinning from a rope, bleeding from his carotid artery, I inspected my wounds. Pete paraded at the fence line, waiting for one last strike. JP came out for a look and retreated in horror. For a seasoned paramedic, his amazingly low tolerance for both bad smells and large amounts of animal blood leave me astonished.

With a sharp knife I dismembered the turkey who had just recently been strutting in the yard. Glancing over my shoulder I saw JP’s pale face peek from behind the curtain. Jack’s naked and divided carcass showed just how vicious his relationship with Pete had been. Bruises in many colors decorated his flesh. Just like looking at an abused child, the bruises showed a time line, green, yellow, and blue, even a livid black-purple. The flesh was not particularly appealing, so I cut around the bruises and set that meat aside for the dogs. Ultimately I was left with the breast and one thigh section, which of course, on cooking, proved quite tough, as this turkey was too old for cooking. JP did not enjoy it, but that had little to do with the toughness. It might be important to note that both my children did, but they had been raised on our own poultry, and even worse, a yearly beefer.

The following day I was in school and the students noted the dramatic injuries to my person. In homeroom Josh, who I had the fortune of having for two years, asked about it, his face alight. He had known me long enough to understand that the answer was likely to be lively. As I explained, his interjections in his clipped English accent; were delightful. “So you just up and killed him? And the knife, it was how big, how many? How do you, no never mind, don’t tell us. You are so crazy.” The homeroom was enthralled, and by the end of the day Josh had made sure that the whole school had heard the entire story, albeit embellished. I fear that most of the school believed I had killed a rabid animal bare handed and eaten it raw.

With Jack under control, quite literally, Pete was now free to court me as he pleased. The new turkey, another tom, is named Julep. As fall approaches he is just now beginning to strut and fan his feathers. He is smaller than jack, so I am hoping that Pete will be able to keep him in line.