Turkey herding

It’s not funny anymore.

I really mean it.

Maybe at one time. Maybe the first couple of times. But I’m tired of it now.

The joke, sort of like the third sequel to a movie that wasn’t all that great the first time, has gone on much to long.

Of course I’m talking about those turkeys.

The ones that insist on roosting each and every night out on that stone wall in front of our house.

There they are right now, perched up on the wall.

Just two hours ago I went out there and ran them off, shooed them off the wall and walked them up the hill.

Unlike chickens, Turkeys are relatively easy to herd.

At least they’re easy to get moving in one direction.

The males plucking along with their heavy load of feathers and stopping, every few steps to gobble in unison (a fact of nature: when one turkey gobbles, all turkey’s gobble.)

And the females, in their flighty way, they’re running back and forth, back and forth. always slightly ahead of the males.

In fact, if you look, that’s what got those males moving. They’re really following the females.

So get the picture.

There I am, bringing up the rear, The tom turkeys several steps in front of me, stopping every several paces to let out a group gobble, and the females bobing from one side to the other of this procession, always slightly ahead, however, of the whole parade.
There we go across the field, up the hill where they hit the road and one of the females, instead of crossing the road, decides to go down it. The males follow.

I have to run around her to get in front (you never run at them because then, they scatter).

Until finally, I can turn her and they all go up the hill across the field and, this is where I quickly open up the fence, and with only several minutes of running them from one side of the gate to the other, they enter.

I close the gate.

Return to the house.

And several hours later, there they are, on the wall again.

And it’s time to start the entire process all over again.