Feb 14, 2015

Trevor the Turbushken

A few months ago this bush turkey chick appeared in our garden. We would spot it from time to time furtively skulking around, a tiny little speck of a thing apparently bereft of parents, carers or guardians of any kind. Where was it getting its food? Its loving nurture? Its moral guidance?

It certainly was a nervous little thing, running away - as perhaps you would if you found yourself in its hapless situation - at the first sign of anything at all.

As time has marched on, the chick has grown into an adolescent, gaining the frankly questionable looks of its forebears: the dull read head, the yellow Elizabethan ruff. Lately it has grown some magnificent tail feathers.

Who knows what a bush turkey normally does in the wild? Well bush turkey experts obviously, but bush turkey experts we are not. All that we have found out as that they are prone to scratching around, eating anything they can, and are independent from a very early age. So maybe we shouldn't worry unduly about the bird's moral compass.

However our little bush turkey, Trevor I call him or her, has apparently become convinced that it is a member of our chickens' family. Perhaps I should rename him or her after a Doctor Who companion.

He or she now skulks a little less, but rather hangs around with the chickens, chilling out with them (if that's the right term in this, our hottest summer like ever), eating what they eat and generally, well, being a chicken.

Nicole was very pleased the other day when she went to feed the chickens and Trevor hooted at her.

I should point out that Trevor is my personal name for him or her, and I may not have told anyone else about it. It may change at any time without notice.

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