Taking advantage of the turkeys born every minute

Taking advantage of the turkeys born every minute

Business was a little slow here on the farm, until I heard about the Adopt-A-Turkey program. Now the mortgage is paid off, I've moved an empty Branson theater onto my land for use as a hay barn, and I've got my eye on a powder blue Mercedes.

At first I thought they must be kidding, when I was listening to a Thanksgiving radio show last year, in which people were calling in their favorite recipes. In the middle of it, some self-righteous so-and-so called to brag that she and her significant other had adopted a turkey for Thanksgiving, and they were going to eat soy burgers on T-Day, with black bean curd pie for dessert.

I checked this out on the web, and sure enough, since at least 1986, there have been vegetarian farm "sanctuaries" accepting donations to spare turkeys from the ax. For fifteen bucks, donors get a photo, a year's subscription to a newsletter (printed on recycled newspaper, I would wager), and the comfort of knowing some turkey somewhere is spending Thanksgiving with its wishbone intact.

"But what good is that?" I asked myself, as I began to add up the dollars and the possibilities. Turkeys boarded with vegetarians are safer than Dick Cheney at an undisclosed location. Pay me not to eat one of my turkeys, however, and you are really accomplishing something.

With this extortion plot rapidly hatching in my brain, I placed an order for 20 turkey hatchlings from a poultry catalog. At the same time, I placed an ad in Vegan Victuals magazine, and posted the same ad on a few Feng Shui websites.

"Corpulent carnivore seeks virtuous vegetarians to stop me from committing the twin sins of killing and gluttony on Thanksgiving." (Okay, I'm not fat, but it paints a better word picture, don't you think?) "For a fee of $25 I will pledge not to eat one of the turkeys fattening on my farm. Your picture gets ours." (I figured that would save on photo costs.) "Newsletter subscription free for one year, or for an extra $5, we will save a tree and not send you anything."

The first week I received 1100 checks, 3000 pledges and 16 desperate offers to trade various articles of comparable value, if I would but spare the lives of these poor birds. Most adopters were from California and New York. One particularly touching letter was from a young Hindu computer geek in D.C. When I added a website (www.bigbreastedbirds.org) and credit card processing, adoptions went through the roof.

By this time, two turkeys had died of natural causes, six had run out into a rainstorm and drowned themselves by staring up at the sky openmouthed, and owls had snatched another three. I was at first frantic to figure out how to provide a turkey for each adopter, but then I revisited the other sites and saw it was impossible to distinguish among the various photos of the cloned gobblers. Postings clearly stated, "Visits by Reservation ONLY!" so I figured the odds of getting exposed for assigning the same bird to 6 or 8,000 adopters would be nil.

In July I sent out a bulletin with color photos of all sorts of dreadful diseases turkeys are susceptible to, and I received over $20,000 to defray my veterinarian bills of $35. In August I described the danger of heat stress, and received $13,000 for livestock fans, plus three donated air conditioners, which I installed in the house.

I allowed one persistent elderly woman to actually visit in September, and she expressed dismay that so few turkeys had been adopted. (I was annoyed that she didn't ask to see the second set of books I had laboriously created.) Judging only by the care she saw me lavishing on nine turkeys, she asked if I wouldn't be willing to take in more if I had sufficient funds, and she promised to leave me a handsome bequest in her will.

That night a bobcat made off with turkey #9, which had been my favorite.

I wasn't going to mess with any of the giant white turkeys, like the commercial farms raise around here, until someone from the highway department heard about my operation and dropped off a battered hen, which had fallen off a Butterball turkey truck. She had bad hips, and could scarcely walk, she was so top heavy, but I took a liking to her. I found a Vet in St. Louis who gave her breast reduction surgery and a couple of those steel hip joints like they put in pampered poodles nowadays. She is doing fine, and I expect the donations to my special appeal for her will cover the expenses many times over.

I'm cooking up a plan for a "Have a Heart, Not Ham" pig adoption for Easter, and the notion of an "Only Jerks Eat Jerky," cow campaign keeps kicking around in my brain.

The only thing I haven't figured out is what to eat for Thanksgiving. I've read that the Pilgrims could always get by with lobster.

Learning from Young Dogs and Old Dogs

© Josh Young 2006

If sheer exuberance were enough to keep a body alive, the young dog had more than enough to go around, and the old dog could have gone on living indefinitely.

Our old Dalmatian, Kitty, was getting increasingly weak and frail, however, and no amount of cute antics or "come run with me" feints the young dog performed would turn back time.

Each morning Molly, the Jack Russell terrier pup, woke to the endless potential of a new day. She ran, she ate, she ran, she jumped, she ate, and she smelled everywhere to see what had crossed her territory overnight. Then it was back to her bowl for a little more food, maybe a quick drink, and another mad dash around the yard. By then, perhaps five minutes had elapsed.

Sometimes as I was doing my chores, I would see Molly run ahead of me to investigate a rabbit run or a dark dusty corner of the barn where a mouse might live. Then, when I turned around, I would see another little Jack Russell terrier, sitting impatiently, cocking her ears like the RCA dog and wagging her tail so fast she could cut grass with it. Only it was the same dog. How Molly could get from twenty feet in front of me, to suddenly be sitting just two feet behind me, is a mystery I'll never solve.

Either out of respect, or because Kitty just didn't register on Molly's radar until she moved, Molly paid little or no attention to Kitty until the old dog got up from her bed on the porch. But as soon as the Dalmatian rose stiffly on her shaky legs, Molly raced over to say hello.

Like an old woman who hobbled out to do her grocery shopping and found herself in the middle of a skateboard park, Kitty was always alarmed at Molly's frenetic approach. Molly is still no bigger than a good-sized house cat, so back then Kitty outweighed her by four or five times. But Molly jumped up, kissed, and pushed the old dog this way and that until Kitty barked, snarled, and enforced a little decorum. Then Molly, chastised but unbowed, led the way to Kitty's dish, racing back and forth like a child leading Grandma downstairs on Christmas morning.

I had to distract Molly for the five minutes it took Kitty to eat her morning food and medicine, or else the young dog would shove under the Dalmatian's legs and hog it all. When Kitty finished, she would have a careful roll on the grass, after which she got up slowly and went off to nap and bake her old bones in the strong morning sun. No amount of coaxing would induce Kitty to go even to the end of the driveway when Molly and I had our morning hunt and run.

It was not always that way.

When Kitty came to the farm as a young dog herself, she was beautiful, strong, and eager to please. Lacking the intelligence of some other breeds, Kitty would never go off on her own or think up games to keep herself occupied when nobody was around, the way a Jack Russell like Molly will. But whenever anybody took more than one step out of the path between the house and the car, Kitty would sense adventure, and she would leap to her feet and caper about and run to be the first in a race with the wind.

One such afternoon long ago Kitty went with me to the lake. We happened upon a sand bar that extended for about thirty yards with water uniformly up to her chest. Although she was never very fond of swimming, Kitty seemed exhilarated by the sensation of running against the resistance of the water, and she galloped in big circles on that submerged sandbar for almost half an hour, until I made the exhausted dog get out of the water and follow me home.

Many times, when I found my energy flagging at the end of long hikes through the woods, I would slip a rope through Kitty's collar and she would proudly tug me up the last big hill home. Then, when I would flop down in a chair to rest, Kitty would look disappointed, as if to say, "We're not going to quit so soon, are we?"

But eventually Kitty showed no disappointment at not going on walks anymore. Late each afternoon when the sun sank low over the west hill, Kitty seemed to feel her best and she rose and walked to the goldfish pond. Most days she just took a drink and had another roll in the lush grass nearby, but several times I saw her actually jump gingerly in and soak for a few minutes before slowly pulling herself out to then shake and roll.

Animal experts would tell me I am foolish, but I would like to think Kitty had dim memories of that day at the lake with me when she galloped with such abandon and caused the water to spray like cascading diamonds in the late afternoon sun.

When Kitty died we buried her high in the north pasture where we like to say you can see to forever. Molly and I sometimes hike there still, and I take a moment to remember walks with Kitty.

Old dog, sweet friend, your race is run.

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Summertime can't be easily measured

© Josh Young 2006

A small stream called Beaver River began in the oak woods just above the farm where I grew up. It flowed down over rocky boulders and then along our best blueberry pasture before finally ducking under an old stone bridge and disappearing back into the pine woods at the other end of our property.

We would cross Beaver River sometimes in our car, headed south, several miles from the farm, but that Beaver River seemed public and impersonal, with houses along its banks, and an official sign to name it, where it passed under the highway bridge.

I loved Beaver River where it was shallow enough to wade across with my pant legs pushed up, or where my brother had built a narrow foot bridge out of logs, which would make you slip and toss you in, if you were careless.

There was another, wide, wooden bridge on our property where the truck could cross, and where we could let our fishing lines float down to where the big trout hid. Sometimes, if the fish weren't biting, we could lie on our bellies and just peek through the cracks between the boards of that bridge to study all manner of aquatic life in the cold, clear stream.

July in New England is the season of blueberries, and as much as I loved fishing, it was impossible to ignore the bumper crops which grew wild all around us. In fact, if fields in that part of the country are not regularly brush hogged, they soon become choked with blueberry bushes and nearly useless to farmers. Such hardships are hard to imagine, but try.

First, in sunny, sandy places, came the tiny blue sugar berries, growing on plants scarcely six inches tall. Next there was a brief season of the mid-sized, knee high blueberry bushes which preferred shady places in the woods. Finally the tall, high bush blueberries ripened everywhere, some of them bending to touch the ground, they were so heavy with fruit.

July was also the month my father took off on vacation from his busy medical practice. For that entire month my father had the luxury of long hours working happily in his garden, uninterrupted evenings shared with family and friends, plus hot afternoons taking us on blueberry picking expeditions and little fishing trips in our old, 1940 Ford truck.

But first there was a brief fireworks display we all had to get through.

I'm not talking about the usual, Independence Day patriotic sparkle and boom fireworks displays. (We did those, too, but real fireworks we enjoyed.) What we dreaded was the loud noises when our cook, Fannie, would make her annual statement which always set my father off like a thunder rocket.

Even though my father had a marvelous disposition most of the time, like most people in high stress jobs, he would get a little cross leading up to his long awaited vacation. We would all walk around on egg shells for the first few days of July, trying not to be the one to cause his pressure valve to blow.

Fannie was an old New England Yankee who had raised nine children of her own before taking on helping with us five. She was built close to the ground on bowed legs which had weathered many storms. She was also full of her own peculiar wisdom, and she wasn't afraid of my dad.

Sometime on the 4th of July, when my father would least expect it, Fannie would waddle into our midst from the kitchen. She was usually lightly dusted with flour, smelling wonderfully of what she insisted on calling "huckleberry" pies, or perhaps freshly baked bread. She would briefly survey the scene, place her wrinkled hands on her hips, and announce, "Well, here it is, the 4th of July. Summer's almost over."

No matter how many times my father had heard Fannie say that before, it would always send him into a tirade.

"Fanny! I've only been on vacation four days! There are THIRTY-ONE DAYS in July! Then comes August AND three weeks of September! Summer is most definitely NOT over! Quit saying that!"

The rest of us would hunker down until the verbal storm was over, but Fannie would stand her ground, and barely sway.

"Well, I guy, you just wait until you're my age, and see what you think then," she'd say, disappearing back into the kitchen.

I'm now only fifty-six, about the age my father was when I remember him on our farm best. But time is a fleeting thing, and on the 4th of July this year I will remember and understand Fannie's conviction that summer is almost over.

But even in winter I can think back on those bright blue, fragrant early summer days, with tall white thunderheads billowing high on the horizon. I can see the rippling waters of Beaver River washing over my bare toes, and taste the sweetness of a handful of blueberries, still hot from the sun.

Summers are endless. Don't count the days, just enjoy them.

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