The Gobbler Brothers came into this world finding it strange indeed. Yet they took to it with zest, as only turkeys can. Check out their debut, "Rescue Me." "No, Me."
"Honey," he said, "grab your umbrella. Quick. It's raining."
"I know," she said. "But we're inside, silly."
"No, I mean your turkeys." Dale pointed to the yard where Honey's free-range duo had stopped pecking the grass. They stood still and looked up, as if surprised to see what was coming down. The chickens had already gone to their coop. "Let's try to get them to roost."
"Oh how terrible," she said. She threw on a jacket, grabbed her umbrella and followed him outside.
Her turkey boys were still young, had never experienced rain. Dale had explained that domesticated turkeys were a little slow on the uptake, so she took her responsibilities as 'mother' seriously. She'd spent considerable time training them and, so far, was pleased with the results. "Time to teach them a new trick," she thought.
"Hurry up before they drown," said Dale. He was already trying to lead them toward the coop.
The Gobbler Brothers followed. Yet stopped every few steps. Craned their necks skyward, in wonder. For them, everything was still a wonder to behold. But not everything was wonderful to them.
"Boys," she said. "I'm here."
They turned. They ran over to her. And stood under the shelter of her love, and the umbrella. Crisis averted.
"Mom," said the eldest. He gobbled this, of course.
"Mom, Mom," said his little brother.
"Darling?" She cupped her hand so Dale could hear through the downpour. She was close behind him. The birds trotted along with her, still under the umbrella.
"Yes?" They were just about to the coop. It was a big yard.
"They won't go in the coop."
He tried anyway. But for naught. The Gobbler Brothers weren't having any of this chicken coop business. They stood resolute. The chickens complained. And The Admiral pecked at the door and rushed at Dale until he complied. He shut their door and turned around.
"Better bring them to the front porch," he said. "At least until the storm passes so they don't go back out."
She nodded. He meant the screened porch.
"You go ahead,"he said. I want to check on Swifter. He should come inside, his kennel might flood."
Louie the cat was already on the back porch. Supervising this grand melee. Not that he approved, just to keep up with current events.
Honey and the Gobbler Brothers trekked on to the front of the house. She opened the screen door. They followed her inside.
"Hey, Brother." Again, the eldest gobbled this.
"What?"
"New digs."
"Copy that. Nice."
"Real nice."
She let the pair roost. And was unconcerned that they each chose a handlebar of her black, still shiny Motobecane racer. The bike was on a stand, so their growing weight wouldn't knock it down. She put newspapers underneath the birds, shivered and said, "You boys be nice, now. I'm going inside."
They settled on their fancy new roost.
Like they had always done before, on the back porch. There Dale had made them a roost from a dry, bare branch that he posted over newspapers. From there they could see Honey come and go. Apparently the Gobbler Brothers felt the coop was too far from Mom.
They shared more small talk. About the view, the nice green lawn, and how warm it was this side of the house. Then promptly fell asleep. Even when they woke later, they never budged. Not until Honey came back. Lord forbid she should never return, or they'd still be there.
"You're wet," said Dale. He handed her a warm towel from the dryer, and filled a cup of coffee. He set it on the table. "Cream and sugar? Maybe you could use the richness today."
"No thanks," she said. "Black is fine."
He refilled his cup and joined her. They sipped coffee and listened to the sound of rain beating on the metal roof. It all but drowned out the game that was still on in the living room. But Dale stayed to make sure she was okay.
"I've named your birds," he said.
"You what? No fair, I'm still working on that." She braced herself, knowing him for the jolly joker she loved.
"Well," he said, "do you want to hear them anyway? You might approve."
"Never." But knew he'd tell her anyway.
"Thanksgiving and Christmas," he said.
"What? You're crazy."
"Oh, boy. We're going to have such a feast for the big holidays."
"Dale Heartland, if you ever..."
She stopped. There wasn't a threat bad enough for this outrage.
"Ever what?" He put on that mocking, innocent face. The one she knew better than to engage.
"You know," she said.
"Honey, come on. Why do you think I brought those turkey eggs home from the Farmer's Market?"
Four to be exact. But two never hatched. And a dozen chicken eggs, too; all of them made it. She'd nurtured the chicks along with the gobblers. Yet only the rooster, "The Admiral" (so named for the remarkable black on white markings that resembled the requisite stripes and stars) seemed to remember their special bond.
The Teenager, too.
That's what they called the rooster who never matured past his adolescence. Dale had told her that most farmers would have culled such a bird. When she learned what he meant, she resisted. So The Teenager stayed with them on their little farm. The poor bird's long neck and spindly body never changed, while the hens and rooster outgrew adolescence and formed as they should.
Even Louie and Swifter took a special liking for The Teenager. They took turns with keeping an eye on him if he strayed from the foraging crowd. But Louie's idea of this was to stalk The Teenager. Until Swifter would take over to nudge the bird back into his flock. The Teenager's head rose above those of the hens as they followed The Admiral.
"Well," said Honey. She wasn't going to let her husband name her turkey boys. Especially not that. "They're mine now."
"I can see that. But my, they're getting big. By winter, they'll be just right. Yum Yum."
"Forget it," she said.
"They'll baste real good," he said.
"If you want a butterball for the holidays, you can do one of two things."
Dale noted how she avoided naming those holidays.
She avoided doing so from then on. Even as winter approached.
"Yes?" he asked.
"That's right. You can either park your butt on the long bench at your mother's long holiday table, right there with the rest of the Heartland clan."
"Or?" he asked.
"Or, go buy a couple frozen butterballs. Thaw and cook them yourself."
He chuckled.
She frowned. Just to show him this was no kidding matter.
"Sorry I mentioned it," he said. "So that's it?"
"One more thing." She was on a roll, and grasped the advantage.
"What's that?" He stood up to go back to his game on TV.
"I'm naming those yard birds. Not you."
"Some farmer's wife you are," he said. Not quite under his breath.
"I heard that," she said. And smiled, yet not so he could see it.
Stay tuned for more adventures of 'What's Their Names.'
(Better known as 'The Gobbler Brothers.')