Gather 'round for the ongoing saga of Taffy ...
Last summer we picked up our two turkeys, six and eight weeks old. We had no idea what sex they were, but we named them Turkish and Tommy because it made us laugh (bonus points if you get the reference). Turkish turned out to be a handsome tom (that's his photo I just posted above), but Tommy turned out to be a hen. So we changed her name to Taffy, because Turkish and Taffy also made us laugh.
Last week, the nice lady from the state vet's department came to do our NPIP testing. Taffy took it personally. She did not like being grabbed. She did not like have her blood taken from her wing. She blames us for the whole ordeal. After her turn was done, she spent the rest of the day hiding under a spruce tree, wondering how we could betray her like that. She's a changed turkey now.
Hubby decided that she changed her name again. She now wants to be known as Ptaffy. The P is silent, you know. He wrote:
She's laying eggs now and has decided that Ptaffy is very cosmopolitan. Tres Chic. She has taken to writing maudlin poetry, being part of the scene. She strolls, a vision for someone who dreams of a lover (Turkish), who might need an inspiration, and who might teach her forbidden things. She pecks, nibbling at corn, sipping her water. Who is that with tail feathers nearly touching the ground, a Greek or Roman statue? No, it's Ptaffy.
While I was at work the other day, hubby sent me an account of Ptaffy's morning:
I went out to card more wool and checked eggs on my way back in. The sun is just over the trees and the broken clouds shared the colors and shed the night. Ptaffy was just coming down the ramp of her coop. She was flat backed and my silhouette sparked fading memories of handling and piercing. She walked like she was in a rainstorm. I walked around to check the coop for eggs. She had made a depression and sat in it. She must have been thinking about what kind of world she would be bringing chicks into. A world where people just turn on you. Like there's no place that's safe. Not even that place Funkytown that Turkish is always singing about. She didn't lay her egg. Her wing is still sore. She sat in her quiet place and closed her eyes and wished. She wished she had some bread. Maybe there was bread. That's when she got up, walked towards the light, noticed a slanted board, frozen ground two feet below and a food dish where she would land if she jumped, and decided to step down the ramp. There was no bread in the food bowl. Turkish was in the doorway of the chickens' coop. That's when she saw me. She decided to just keep going and walked right by Turkish. He touched her. Creep. He touched her and shook. She could feel him shake. It was disgusting. You should see his face. It's like, "Yeah, this is my horrifying snood." There was no bread in the coop. She pecked a chicken. Why was she with the chickens? She should be under her spruce tree. She walked back to the door. Turkish puffed and filled the opening. She looked around for bread.
Heh. Ptaffy is our very own barnyard soap opera.
Last summer we picked up our two turkeys, six and eight weeks old. We had no idea what sex they were, but we named them Turkish and Tommy because it made us laugh (bonus points if you get the reference). Turkish turned out to be a handsome tom (that's his photo I just posted above), but Tommy turned out to be a hen. So we changed her name to Taffy, because Turkish and Taffy also made us laugh.
Last week, the nice lady from the state vet's department came to do our NPIP testing. Taffy took it personally. She did not like being grabbed. She did not like have her blood taken from her wing. She blames us for the whole ordeal. After her turn was done, she spent the rest of the day hiding under a spruce tree, wondering how we could betray her like that. She's a changed turkey now.
Hubby decided that she changed her name again. She now wants to be known as Ptaffy. The P is silent, you know. He wrote:
She's laying eggs now and has decided that Ptaffy is very cosmopolitan. Tres Chic. She has taken to writing maudlin poetry, being part of the scene. She strolls, a vision for someone who dreams of a lover (Turkish), who might need an inspiration, and who might teach her forbidden things. She pecks, nibbling at corn, sipping her water. Who is that with tail feathers nearly touching the ground, a Greek or Roman statue? No, it's Ptaffy.
While I was at work the other day, hubby sent me an account of Ptaffy's morning:
I went out to card more wool and checked eggs on my way back in. The sun is just over the trees and the broken clouds shared the colors and shed the night. Ptaffy was just coming down the ramp of her coop. She was flat backed and my silhouette sparked fading memories of handling and piercing. She walked like she was in a rainstorm. I walked around to check the coop for eggs. She had made a depression and sat in it. She must have been thinking about what kind of world she would be bringing chicks into. A world where people just turn on you. Like there's no place that's safe. Not even that place Funkytown that Turkish is always singing about. She didn't lay her egg. Her wing is still sore. She sat in her quiet place and closed her eyes and wished. She wished she had some bread. Maybe there was bread. That's when she got up, walked towards the light, noticed a slanted board, frozen ground two feet below and a food dish where she would land if she jumped, and decided to step down the ramp. There was no bread in the food bowl. Turkish was in the doorway of the chickens' coop. That's when she saw me. She decided to just keep going and walked right by Turkish. He touched her. Creep. He touched her and shook. She could feel him shake. It was disgusting. You should see his face. It's like, "Yeah, this is my horrifying snood." There was no bread in the coop. She pecked a chicken. Why was she with the chickens? She should be under her spruce tree. She walked back to the door. Turkish puffed and filled the opening. She looked around for bread.
Heh. Ptaffy is our very own barnyard soap opera.
