Perhaps I mentioned that Collector H bought a big ol' tom turkey on Sunday at the livestock auction. He put it in the segregated part of the chicken pen that has a roof. The part where he put the hen that hatched our only egg, now known as Chicky. The chick, not the egg.
Last night, as I was enjoying my porch walk, Collector H arrived home from work. He went to check on his animals (before his kids), bleating the whole way across the front yard. The goats answered him back. Goatherd H is the universal nanny.
Goatherd H fed the chickens. Then the goats. Then the rabbits. Round after round I tromped on my porch walk. Then it happened. I heard, "Who's a big turkey? Huh? Who's a big turkey? Him's a big turkey! Yes he is! Him's a big tom turkey! How heavy is the tom turkey? Huh? How heavy is the turkey?" There was Turkey Whisperer H, bent over, his arms around the turkey's breast, trying to lift him. After much heaving of the non-ergonomic kind, Turkey Whisperer H lifted that tom about six inches off the ground. "Him's a heavy tom turkey!"
Please. Call the Intervention show. Get Candy Finnegan, stat!
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