Seeing Dimsworth and Hawthorne lurking about in the pasture makes me realize how much I’ve missed not having turkeys. Anyone who says they lack personality has clearly never owned one — Dimsworth and Hawthorne couldn’t be more different from Thanksgiving and Christmas. Dimsworth, particularly, is shaping up to be a bit of a butt. He puffs up his tail feathers, which at his young age resemble a heavily-used, rarely-cleaned Swiffer duster, then flares out his wings and circles the ducks likes he’s got something to prove. He particularly enjoys chasing the poor things, a habit he’d best grow out of quickly unless he wants to meet the business end of a garden hose.
Hawthorne, on the other hand, is much more quiet and contemplative. He sits quietly and watches the world go by. He also learned how to get into the duck enclosure, then taught Dimsworth that delicious kibble can be found there. I have to go out there several times a day and chase them out before they wolf down the ducks’ lunch. Although at this point the ducks are still bigger, they are scared of the turkeys. Not that I blame them, what with their glittering reptilian eyes and all. Pretty soon they won’t be able to fit through the duck door, and they’ll be too fat to chase the ducks, so problem solved.