George the Turkey

When I was eight or nine years old, my parents decided to raise turkeys instead of chickens over the summer. My brothers and sister and I were excited about the change. Trucks from the local turkey farm often traveled down our road, filled with crates of white turkeys and we were curious when the new brood took over our chicken coop. They were large and all looked identical to us, unlike the colorful flock of banty chickens we'd had before.

A couple of weeks after getting the turkeys, my dad was on his way to work and noticed something next to the side of the road. It was another baby turkey, a bit younger than ours, that had somehow fallen off a turkey truck. A freebie! He put it in the car trunk and continued to work. During his break, he called my mom, and she packed us into the car and drove into town to retrieve the turkey and bring it home.

The new turkey looked exactly the same, but was smaller than the others. The flock decided right away that they didn't like the idea of a newcomer. They pecked and picked at the younger new turkey, and chased him around the pen. It was clear that they would keep at it until they had killed him.

My dad didn't want to lose this free turkey, so he build an addition to the chicken coop, a small section of pen with its own door. My siblings and I loved the miniature turkey pen and its new occupant, and started calling him George. We made a bit of a pet out of him, picking weeds and grass to feed him in addition to his food, and making sure that he had water just like the other turkeys.

This photo is of us with George. It was taken the day that all of the turkeys were butchered, and not a tear was shed.

During that winter, every time we had turkey for dinner someone would say, "I wonder if this is George?"