To begin - 2009, by Vi:

It always starts out small and inconspicuous . . . then appears the magic.

Chester, a wild Rio Grande turkey, was hatched in our yard the spring of 2005.  During the next several years, he made himself known, becoming a familiar, friendly face wandering about the yard.  He was only one in a modest sized group of turkeys, but he stood out.  Of the group, he was the least afraid of us, always curiously watching when we emerged from the house.  We cemented our relationship the day we discovered him talking to his reflection in the bumper on our van - we tried to explain that the turkey on the other side wasn't another turkey . . . and why it wouldn't talk back to him.  This was Chester's first year as a fully fledged Tom.  The following mating season, though he wasn't the biggest tom, he established himself as the dominant male.  At this point, however, we hadn't yet named him; we just called him an odd tom turkey.

Chester received his name in 2009.  He and three other males were courting a dozen ladies in front of our house.  They all had gathered around the song bird feeding area under the cherry tree, just across the driveway from the deck.  One of the males was injured.  It was the odd tom.  He had a deep slice across his left shin - it looked like it was cut down to the bone.  His left foot was severely swollen and bent under at the ankle.  It looked broken.  Mostly he hopped on one foot and only extended the bunged-up foot briefly for balance, touching it lightly to the ground.  We figured he was either spurred across his shin in a fight, or he clipped his shin on a barbed-wire-topped crossfence.

In the wild, an animal with an injured foot is unlikely to survive long.  Since we are not objective biologists determined to let nature do what it will, but individuals who like to help those in need, especially when they wear feathers or fur, we decided to do what we could.  To start, we named him Chester, after the '50s television character on Gunsmoke, the one with the limp.

Prior to Chester's injury, we scattered a smattering of seeds daily for the local song birds.  To assist Chester with his daily needs, we added a pile of seeds for him, also making sure the water bowl was full and clean.  We even added more water bowls around the yard for his convenience.  To encourage him to stick around, we began feeding him bits of bread, sometimes home baked.  He's also fond of homemade biscuits.  All the while Chester stayed true to his mission, courting the ladies, even in his injured condition.  Eventually, the other males wandered off, leaving Chester to complete the task.  The lady turkeys were patient with his lopsided attempts to woo them.  In spite of his injury, Chester was successful.

As summer wore on, Chester went from only using the injured foot for balance, to hobbling on that foot with the ankle and toes bent under.  Gradually, he was able to straighten his foot some and walk using the bottom of his foot, his toes skewed to the side.  At present he walks with a limp.  His foot and ankle are still enlarged, but not nearly as badly.

Each day we make sure he has enough seeds and cracked corn.  Each day we feed him bits of bread.  When I step out onto the front deck and call, "Chester.... Hello, Chester," if he's in the vicinity, he eagerly hobbles over, sweetness brimming in his eyes.  If he's not in the vicinity but still within ear-shot, he always gobbles his presence, letting me know where he is.  As I feed him, he makes cute little chortling sounds, his way of saying thanks.  At times, I join him at ground level to scatter the bread, one bit at a time.  Sometimes he comes alone to the feeder.  Sometimes the lady turkeys accompany him.  He even seems to have figured out which part of the house we sleep in, and many mornings he positions himself under our bedroom window at sunrise and chortles softly, trying to wake us and let us know he wouldn't mind a feeding.  I'd peer out the window each morning and see him looking up, his sweet face beaming with eager delight.  For a while, I actually got up and fed him, then I'd go back to bed and try to finish my sleep.  Unfortunately, I've always had trouble sleeping, and I couldn't keep it up.  He was very understanding  At night he now sleeps in the fir tree just down from the house.  We wonder how he manages to balance himself in a tree without the full use of his toes.  But sure enough, he does.

Meeting Chester has been an educational experience for me.  I've learned a number of things about this person of the turkey persuasion.  For one, he's afraid of red.  When I wear red clothes he runs from me.  Otherwise, he allows me to get within a few feet of him.  While I'm hoping to get him to eat from my hand, I'm not pushing it.  I don't want him to lose his fear of humans in general.  Everyone is not in love with him, like we are.  We've had people ask to hunt turkeys on our property.  We say no.  Today, as I took my walk around the driveway in the rain, I learned he is also afraid of umbrellas.  Of course, it is partly red.  Even though red is my favorite color, I'm rethinking my wardrobe, for him.  He's worth it.

I've watched the way he spreads his wings, seen the iridescence of his feathers and how many different colors they display, depending on the light.  I love their varying, unique patterns.  I know how quickly his feathers regrow after the molt.

Over the summer Phil took myriad photos of Chester.  From them, I painted Chester's portrait, the one displayed here.  With this painting, it is my hope to unveil the beauty of his soul, his purity, his sentience.  He has no artificial agenda.  He is Chester, our Zen turkey, living in the moment, learning and doing what a turkey needs to know and do to survive.  Living with Chester has provided moments of enlightenment - for me.  From him, I have gained so much, including comfort.  His chortles heal my soul.  I hope you, too, can find something special in this painting of Chester and his higher self.  For this painting is not about Chester seeing God.  It is about Chester looking up to find his higher self, looking back at him.

No wonder Benjamin Franklin wanted to make the wild turkey our national bird.



Update 2010, by Phil:

Chester overwintered with us, roosting in the fir tree close to the house.  His foot and ankle remained swollen.  His toes remained skewed to the side, and he still had a pronounced limp.  You could tell his foot hurt, especially on cold days, but at least it was improving and fairly usable, provided he didn't have to do anything too strenuously with it.

Daily fixtures in each other's lives, we learned each other's ways and shared each other's doings.  Chester was very bright, and for the most part figured us out rather quickly.  Of sorts, we learned to communicate - oddly more by eye-contact and attitude than by words.  Nevertheless, he'd come in a hobbling trot when we called or showed him a slice of bread.  Sometimes, when he decided it was time for bread, or he just wanted company, he'd call us.  It was a pleasure to reward him for his effort.

The remainder of his group roosted across the field in a neighbor's yard, but they all joined Chester just about every day.  Come mating season, a number of local hens began visiting, too.  It became too crowded to feed them all under the cherry tree, so we moved the feeding area to a tree-bordered strip along the driveway between our house and the neighbor's field.  We all became acquaintances, if not friends.

Spring started early, and so did the courting.  Not missing the cycle, last year's three toms, the ones Chester had bested, returned.  As tradition seemed to dictate, the toms challenged Chester.  At first, it was just a little benign chasing, and one on one, Chester did okay.  But when the two biggest toms started ganging up on him, his hurt leg wouldn't let him maneuver as he needed, and he began losing ground.  I was afraid of what might happen if the third tom joined in, so, to even the sides, I designated myself Chester's wing man.

I'd noticed when wild turkeys spar, they make threatening vocalizations; their heads get a bright pale blue; their necks get all red and puffy; their body feathers poof out, and they spread and flap their wings, often stomping and lunging with their feet or side-butting each other - I assume to show how big and intimidating they are and perhaps land a defining blow to end the match.  It never seemed a match to the death, just a big game of bluff with maybe the loss of a few feathers and a minor injury here or there.  The only real problem I saw is that the looser was usually vanquished, run off, often not to return.  I couldn't let that happen to Chester.  He was a member of the family, and this was his home.  My only alternative was to pretend I was a bigger and more intimidating turkey than the intruders - at six feet seven inches tall and well over two hundred pounds, I was pretty sure I could do the "bigger" and "intimidating" part; it was the "turkey" part I had to prove.

I hurried to the house and put on a bright red flannel shirt, over which I slipped a fairly bright blue plaid shirt.  Quickly returning to the challenge, I approached the two toms still harassing Chester.  I started yelling at them in a firm deep voice.  Apparently, they didn't understand English.  I opened my blue shirt, revealing my "fighting colors".  Only the third tom that had been holding back seemed to notice.  He joined the other two, still intent on Chester.  I needed to draw their attention away from Chester.  I had to "prove the turkey part" if being bigger was going to be intimidating.  I offered them my best deranged turkey impression.  Gobbling loudly, I flapped my blue shirt like it was wings, and shuffled and stomped toward the group.  They were all taken by surprise.  Even Chester quickly backed away.

The three interlopers fanned out.  They puffed themselves up and started complaining.  One moved toward Chester, gobbling and lunging at him.  Crouched, with wings spread, I sidestepped between them.  Behind me, the rest of Chester's group seemed content to ignore the proceedings.  I flapped my wings at the interlopers all the harder and complained right back at the threatening toms, all the while stomping slowly toward them, keeping myself between them and Chester.  Chester watched curiously from the sidelines.

The three toms stood their ground, flapping, stomping and gobbling at me, until I was about 10 feet from them.  At that point, I think they realized I wasn't just some silly human dancing around, making noise and displaying my colors for their amusement.  I was actually challenging them, perhaps more, and in a moment I'd be on top of them.  Someone would have to back down, and I was showing them it wasn't going to be me.

They started nervously shuffling, unsure of what to do next.  Knowing what I wanted them to do, I pressed on.  After one large flapping, accompanied by a loud gobble-gobble and several foot stomps on my part, they started backing away.  Still, probably more for show than anything else, the larger two toms returned my challenge with several halfhearted gobbles.  I continued my approach, flapping, stomping, gobbling, herding them backward toward the fence.  I was relentless, and they probably thought I was crazy.  But it worked.  They turned and trotted for safety, with me in slow, close pursuit, scolding them - they were welcome here, but everyone has to behave.  I gave them several more foot stomps and a huge flapping from my blue over shirt.  They flew into the neighbor's yard.  I flapped and stomped once more, and they trotted off across the field.

I turned to Chester, still watching from the sidelines.  The rest of the turkeys, still scratching in the driveway gravel, seemed oblivious to my heroics.  When Chester saw me fold away my "fighting colors", approaching him and talking softly, he seemed to understand right away what had just happened.  For several moments we simply stared at one another, reveling in the profound change our relationship had just taken.

For the next bunch of days, Chester and I defended his home, his territory and his flock.  The toms had several interesting tactics, trying numerous ways to separate me and Chester, or herd away some hens.  They even had a few sneak attack maneuvers, but with the advantage of my height, I all but once spotted their intent and stopped them in their tracks.  The one time I missed, Chester saw it coming and offered a surprise of his own.  In all honesty, something in me really enjoyed working with Chester.  I think he felt the same.

We apparently made a good team, because soon the interloping three toms decided it wasn't worth the effort of dealing with Chester and his crazy person.  Chester and I had won, and no one got hurt in the process.  A few weeks later, two other toms attempted to run Chester off, only this time, with minor display assists from my "fighting color" shirts and a few of my gobbles and foot stomps, it was Chester who dealt all vanquishing moves, even chasing them off with his pronounced hobbling gate.

In late April, the cold weather returned.  By then, most of the hens had disbursed to build nests and raise some young.  The holdouts and the various younger male and female turkeys from 2009 remained.  In spite of the returning cold and rain, Chester diligently completed the courting rituals, and the holdouts too went off in search of nesting sites.  For many of the early breeders, however, it was to prove a fruitless and sad event.  About 80% of those who nested or hatched their brood before the cold snap lost all their poults.  The late courters, once spring returned in June, fared much better.

As summer took over, things settled and returned to normal turkey life in the country.  Our daily communion with Chester became a time of anticipation, a time of feeling good, of feeling that everything was right with the world.  I often sensed he felt it, too.  There was a contentment in his eyes, a comforted look that was easy to see.  He was as devoted to us as we were to him.  He could now even tell when we were coming outside by the sounds we made in the house.  We often found him waiting, stretching up, hoping to see us through the garage door windows.  A special endearment was how he responded to the sound of Vi's voice.  He seemed especially drawn to it.  If he heard her shout his name, he always let her know he was around, usually hurrying, with his hobbling trot, to greet her.  If he was busy elsewhere, he'd always gobble back, letting her know he'd return in a while.  We showed him what it was like to be human, and Chester taught us it wasn't so different from being a Chester - he was as sentient as any human I'd ever met, only better: he harbored no malice to anything and offered only love and his wisdom.  On occasion, he'd even follow me around as I took my daily bugtography walks, and in his quiet chortling tones, he'd teach me Zen and the meaning of life.  He brought peace to an otherwise troubled world.  He was not just a turkey, he was truly a loving friend.

The immature turkeys also lingered, and some of the hens that had lost their broods, occasionally rejoined the group.  It was also about this time that one of the lingering turkeys started changing its appearance.  It was having a growth spurt, suddenly getting taller, lankier, and it's feathers seemed to be turning from the inconspicuous dull grey/brown of hens and jakes to the darker iridescent sheen of a young tom.  It was also starting to sport the beginnings of a beard in the center of its chest, and its center tail feathers were longer than the rest of the feathers in the fan.  Even more noticeable, this young tom had really taken a shine to Chester.  No longer milling about with the remainder of the turkeys, he devoted all his time to Chester.  He watched Chester.  He walked and constantly talked with Chester.  He ate with Chester.  He mimicked Chester.  He sat with Chester, and even took to circling Chester, urging him to get up and do things, perhaps to teach him more.  They became good buddies, and as the youngster requested, Chester started teaching him what it meant to be a tom turkey.  Before long, Chester and his devoted friend were roosting together in his fir tree by the house.  We called Chester's new friend Rupert.

About the same time Rupert blossomed, a ram from my neighbor's field managed to work its way under the fence into our yard, damaging the fence in the process.  About a dozen cows and sheep use the field each June through mid-July.  They trample and eat down the grass, easing the fire hazard.  By now, the field was mostly dried out and trampled.  There was still enough for the cows and sheep to eat, but the grasses in our yard, shaded by many trees, were comparatively green and lush.  I didn't blame the ram for wanting the greener grass, but he couldn't stay.  Vi tried contacting the ram's owner, but could only leave a message.  I decided to cut an opening in the damaged area of the fence, and we eventually herded the big fellow back where he belonged.  I had just repaired the damage when the ram's owner drove up our driveway.  When we told her what we'd done and why, she started laughing, amazed the ram hadn't come after us.  About ten days later, all the remaining good grasses in the field were either eaten or trampled beyond cow and sheep use, and the livestock was removed.

Cows and sheep or not, the neighbor's field was also a good and longtime favorite place for Chester and his flock to browse.  Though the grasses and their seeds might be unusable, there were still plenty of bugs and such.  Most of the flock's time was spent in our yard, but on occasion, they'd hop the cross-fence to take advantage of the field's bounty.  The cross-fence was only about 3 ½ feet high, but there were two strands of barbed wire that topped the fence, raising the height to 4+ feet.  The flock had no problem, but Chester was always hesitant, perhaps afraid of it, often requiring Rupert's urging to get him over.  We even cut back all the cluttering vegatation along the fence to give Chester more room, but it only made the rest of the flock more comfortable with crossing.  To make it easier for Chester, we reopened the cut I'd put in the fence and added a low gate, just tall enough for a nice tom turkey to pass through unimpeded.  We would keep the gate closed in June and most of July when the neighbor's field hosted cows and sheep.  But when the field was empty, we'd open the gate.  Chester seemed pleased with the arrangement.

For the remainder of the summer, Chester's flock remained steady - Chester, his new friend Rupert (the only male from the 2009 hatching), six female youngsters (Rupert's siblings) from the 2009 hatching and the occasional reunion with an older hen.  We think the youngsters and the occasional returning hens hung around not only to join in Chester's and Rupert's daily feeding, but also because they too found Chester to be pleasant company.  We'd often find them lounging about the yard, sometimes in the sun, sometimes in the shade, and almost always all together.

By summer's end, a hen with nine large young (the 2010 hatching) joined the group.  We called the little ones the Gobblets.  I'd seen the hen and Gobblets wandering the yard and neighbor's field since early July, figuring they were probably Chester's kids.  With the addition of the Gobblets, Chester's group settled in at a constant 17.  Normally, outside of mating season, toms only hang out with other toms, but Chester took everyone in and shared his bounty - such is the nature of Chester.



Update 2011:

Though Chester's leg would probably never completely heal, it was coming along well.  As winter progressed, he started venturing from our yard, sometimes with just Rupert, sometimes the whole gang would go, sometimes he'd even wander off alone.  Once in a great while, he'd even spend a night or two away from home.  We didn't mind Chester doing his turkey thing, in fact, we encouraged it.  But being the doting parents we'd become, we did want assurances he was okay.  Apparently, on those days when Chester wandered off and left Rupert behind, even Rupert was concerned for his well-being.  More than once Rupert joined in the chorus calling for Chester.  Vi would go to the fence-line and call across the field for Chester.  Each time Vi called out, "Chester!", Rupert would add a loud gobble-gobble-gobble.  If Chester replied, Rupert would trot off across the field and bring Chester back.  Good friends are hard to come by.

Eventually, the inevitable arrived, and mating season found Chester and Rupert hard at work, wooing and courting their ladies.  A bunch of new hens had joined the flock of seventeen.  Chester still fumbled a bit because of his foot, but no one seemed to mind.  Rupert had turned into a tall and sleekly muscular tom with a subtle outward flare to his beard; he was perhaps two to three inches taller than Chester.  Apparently Chester had already covered the fine art of courting, and except for minor moments of inexperience, the handsome Rupert fulfilled his obligations with no complaints from the ladies.  I'd heard that only the dominant male gets to mate, and Chester did get to service the majority of the hens, yet he never tried to stop Rupert if he got lucky.

After several weeks of courting their ladies alone, Chester and Rupert were confronted by three roving toms in search of hens that would have them.  The toms appeared to be new to the area, two of them even bigger than any of last year's toms.  They were tall like Rupert, but more heavy-bodied, like Chester.  They wanted Chester's and Rupert's hens, but rather than being willing to share, they wanted them all for themselves, and Chester and Rupert had to go.

Challenged by the two larger toms, Chester and Rupert made a formidable team.  But Rupert, though brave, gutsy and willing, was new to this sparring thing and hadn't yet learned much of the finesse of fighting.  The two newcomers soon realize this and started concentrating their offensive on Rupert.  Several times Chester interceded on Rupert's behalf, then kept himself between the interlopers and Rupert, but with his bad leg slowing him down, it proved difficult to launch a good offense.  Nevertheless, as long as it was just two against two, Chester and Rupert, for the most part, prevailed.  They were never run off, but sometimes they did back off and let the interlopers have their stay.  For about a week, the sparring with the two big toms continued, the timid third tom always keeping his distance.  If the two fighting interlopers were driven off, the third stayed behind for a while, trying not to be conspicuous, waiting for an opportunity to rejoin his friends without being run off himself.  Things changed, however, when the two large toms somehow convinced their timid third to partake in the sparring.  The three interlopers again singled out Rupert, knowing Chester would intercede, as he always did.  And when he did intercede, they all turned on him.  Seeing Chester's predicament, Rupert flew into the tangle of birds and managed to back off the attackers.  At this point, I figured if the two big toms could enlist the aid of a third, I'd volunteer as Chester's and Rupert's third.

All five males were still at it when I showed up a minute later in last year's "fighting colors".  It only took a fast approach and one large, grumbling gobble to stop everyone in their tracks.  A few stomps and flapping my blue wings, exposing my large swath of red, backed them all up, even Chester and Rupert.  The three invading toms flapped their wings in disapproval and gobbled angrily at me.  I flapped and gobbled back.  Chester quietly chortled something to Rupert, and they disappeared behind me.  Having witnessed the sparring dance all week, I felt it was time for me to mix it in with my deranged turkey dance of last year.  I spread my blue wings wide and showed them the expanse of my bright red "throat" (shirt).  I grumbled loudly, gobbled and stomped my feet several times.  The biggest tom flapped and lifted straight up, about a meter into the air, its feet outstretched.  He was challenging me.  I accepted the challenge, immediately stomping my way forward.  By the time the big tom had touched down, I was almost upon him.  Trying desperately to back away, the big tom tripped up and nearly fell.  The two other toms gobbled and flapped, but neither appeared to challenge me.  I stomped and flapped in reply.  The three interlopers complained, nervously backing away.  Just as I was getting into my next gobble, flap and stomp, I heard a gobbling from behind me.  To my surprise, Chester and Rupert had flanked me, and when they saw their point man create an opportunity, they raced in with wings outstretched, feet challenging, colliding with the three surprised toms.  Feathers starting flying everywhere.  The biggest tom was knocked off his feet; the other two were next.  Though it seemed like many minutes, the final fiasco lasted only seconds.  No one seemed badly hurt, except perhaps for their pride.  I watched with a smile as Chester and Rupert chased the interlopers through my neighbor's field.  When they came back a few minutes later, they each got an extra cup of corn and grain.  They listened, chortled lightly and munched while I congratulated them on successfully defending "their" home.

The three toms returned the following day.  Again the sparring.  Again the sides were lopsided.  Again super-turkey donned his "fighting colors" and joined his two friends.  Not surprising, I made the invading toms nervous.  Also not surprising, Chester and Rupert seemed to have anticipated the toms' nervousness and took quick advantage, launching an offense at the invaders first sign of wavering.  The clashes were brief and to the point.  Forceful but not brutal.  Surprised by the well-coordinated attacks, the interlopers would grudgingly depart into my neighbor's field.  Several times they returned, and each time the challenge ended almost before it had a chance to start.  This went on for several days, until the toms decided it might be better to do their wooing from the safety of the fence's far side.  A few days later, after repeated scoldings from Chester and Rupert, they gave up altogether.

Two other toms showed up just before courting season ended, but I think they may have been the interlopers from last year.  They challenged Chester and Rupert several times, but each time I showed up, they left right away.  They were gone by the end of the week.

When courting season ended, things again settled into the normal summer grind.  Chester, Rupert and the remainder of the flock, now averaging thirteen to seventeen turkeys, came for breakfast every morning.  If they weren't in front of the house waiting, they'd either be somewhere in the yard or the neighbor's field, foraging until we called them.  As soon as they heard Vi's voice and the word, "Chester" float through the mild morning air, they'd all come running, with Chester and his slowing hobble taking up the rear - an endearing sight watching him race as best he could to come home for breakfast.  Everyone knew that we always waited for Chester to arrive before anyone got fed, so they simple took up position where the corn and grain were usually laid out and waited patiently for Chester to join them, leaving him his favorite spot, a protected area between the front bumpers of our cars.  The flock seemed more at ease with each other this year, and except for very minor pranks and skirmishes they had become a very tightly knit group . . . with Chester as their patriarch.  They all even decided to roost with him.  Of course, they couldn't all fit in his fir tree, but it wasn't for lack of trying.  Some evenings we'd see at least a dozen birds jockeying for positions near him.

And like last year, when it was Rupert's turn, several more jakes (from the Gobblets group) entered puberty.  The first two to be noticed were Walt (with about a 2 ½ inch beard) and Wilt (with about 1+ inch beard).  We named them after two very tall basketball players.  The two jakes always hung out together, always ate from the same pile of grain.  Just like Rupert, they suddenly shot up, becoming tall and lanky almost overnight.  A few days later, we noticed Theodore, their brother, with a nubbin of a beard.  He was a bit shorter and stockier, like Chester.  He was also colored more like Chester, whose unique chocolate brown tail feathers made it very easy to spot him in the crowd.  Walt and Theodore were peaceful by nature, like Chester (and Rupert).  Wilt was a bit pushy, and at times, to me, seemed overly aggressive, unnecessarily so.  It didn't take long for Walt, Wilt and Theodore to gravitate from the "youngster's group" to "hanging out" with Chester and Rupert.  Pecking order quickly became a priority.  Chester unquestionably remained the dominant male, with Rupert, his best buddy, number two in the lineup.  Walt and Wilt tussled it out, and though Walt was bigger and looked stronger, Wilt's antagonism proved damaging - Walt's snood, the fleshy projection above his nose, was swollen, distended and red with fresh bleeding wounds.  An important part of the mating display, I hoped his snood wasn't permanently damaged.  Theodore was happy just being allowed to hang out with the big boys, and he didn't challenge anyone.

It wasn't long after, while I was on my daily bugtography walk, when one of my neighbors called me over to chat.  He said several of his chickens were missing, and earlier that morning he had seen a large bobcat prowling around his chicken coop.  A few days earlier he had seen a smaller bobcat stalking one of his birds.  Several other neighbors had also seen the bobcats.  The neighbors wanted to protect their poultry, and I should let them know if I spot either bobcat.  I told him I'd watch for signs of them.

Almost every day, my neighbor's chickens came into my yard (the area along the road) and scratched around between my fence and our fruit trees, looking for bugs and stuff.  Usually the chickens ignored me, and I took a few pictures.  Perhaps two weeks from my conversation with the neighbor, my bugtography walk brought me to the fence.  Right by the entry gate, was a pile of orange/blonde chicken feathers.  Following a very sparse feathery trail, about ten feet to the right, another, smaller pile.  There were no bones, and there didn't appear to be any blood.  I looked around for more feathers.  There was no sign of anything anywhere.  Apparently, the chicken had been neatly and thoroughly consumed.  I remembered the bobcats.

The height of summer was upon us.  The cows and sheep had come and gone.  While the turkey gate was closed, none of the flock seemed to mind spending most of six weeks on our side of the fence.  Our yard is pretty big, so they had plenty of places to eat, play and be turkeys.  The daily breakfast brigade had finally resolved their pecking order issues, and breakfast had returned to an orderly routine: Vi called for Chester, and they'd all come running.  To avoid too many squabbles, we'd make sure there was at least one pile of corn and grain for each turkey.  After breakfast, the flock would occasionally break up into two or three groups.  Even with the turkey gate now open, the big boys would usually hang around the yard, while the youngsters ventured into the neighbor's field and beyond.  Sometimes, Chester would tag along for a bit while I went on my bugtography walks.  Other times he'd just lazy around with the others taking turns converting mole hills into dust baths.  Their favorite spots to spend the day were often two large areas of the yard I kept un-mowed just for them.  The hay grass grew to about three feet, just right for turkeys to play and cozy into.  It was also ripe with seeds which they just loved to gobble up.   But regardless of where everybody went, come sunset, they'd all gather up in front of the house and let us know it was dinner time.  After dinner, they'd mill around for a bit, then take to the trees.  The next morning, the cycle would repeat.  It was a leisurely and enjoyable summer routine, the kind you wish would never end.



Update August 18, 2011:

Chester didn't show up for breakfast this morning.  Everyone else showed up, but they seemed tense, nervous.  Instead of eagerly flocking to the feeding area and taking their usual stations, they all kept their distance.  They seemed fidgety, talking to each other, or perhaps to me, exchanging noticeable agitation.  I laid out the corn piles. The turkeys hesitantly approached.  It took them a little while to settle into their meal.  No one touched the pile between the cars usually reserved for Chester.

Concerned, I called around the yard.  I called into the neighbor's field.  Nothing.  I went back to the house and told Vi about Chester missing breakfast.  Vi and I spent most of the morning looking for Chester, calling for Chester, but no Chester gobbled back reassuringly to the sound of our voices.

We continued the daily feeding ritual for the rest of the flock, hoping each morning we'd find Chester mingling among them.  Each morning, however, Chester didn't show up.  Vi and I kept searching and calling for him every day, but nowhere could we find any sign of him.  We scoured the entire neighborhood calling for him.  We drove further through the neighborhood and called.  But still no reply from our dear little Chester.

The flock was also noticeably troubled.  Within days, the group started falling apart.  Everyone seemed lost.  There was no longer a center to gather around and the group lost its cohesiveness.  By August 29th, three separate groups had formed, and they were interacting less and less.   Their personalities had changed, and no one any longer seemed who they were just ten days earlier.  Rupert was the most changed.  He was noticeably distraught, unsure of himself.  He too often called for Chester, and it was obvious he suffered the silence when Chester didn't respond.  He seemed in agony, devastated by Chester's absence - it's a terrible thing to see a turkey mourn the loss of his best friend.  It was just as terrible when we finally started to realize that we might have to give in to the idea that Chester might really be gone, forever.  Nevertheless, we kept hoping, and every day we kept searching and calling.  Twice, we heard a turkey reply from across the neighbor's field, but after investigating, it turned out to be Wilt foraging across the field beyond the far fence line.  Concern was turning to dread.



Update September 12, 2011:

Today has been a painful and sorrowful day.  This morning, Vi again heard a turkey responding to her call of, "Chester!"  Again, it came from the far end of our neighbor's field.  Crouching and carefully easing through the opening in the fence, she headed off to the responding turkey.  Again, it was Wilt.  On impulse, Vi decided to walk along the field's far fence-line, away from Wilt.  It didn't take many steps until she stumbled upon a horrid, ghastly, numbing sight.  About ten feet from the fence, in a shallow depression were the feathered remains of a turkey.  Vi called me on the walkie-talkie.  (Being codgers, we always carry handsets when we leave the house to roam the yard, just in case . . . .)  I carefully held down the barbed wire and straddle over the fence, hurrying to join her.  From across the field, I could see she was staring down at something.  It was a pile of both large and small feathers.  There was also one small, thin, rounded bone mixed in with the feathers - it looked like the cap to a skull.  I picked up several of the larger tail and wing feathers.  My heart sank.  The colors were a rich chocolate brown.  Unmistakable, they were Chester's feathers.  For many long moments neither Vi nor I could say the obvious - our beloved Chester was dead.  Like being suddenly submerged in ice water, the grief was overwhelming.

For many minutes, we simply stood there, trying to console each other.  But there was no consolation; there never would be.  Eventually composing ourselves, we looked around the area for other signs.  Perhaps fifty paces to the south along a cross fence, we found another pile of turkey feathers, smaller feathers, like those grown around the neck and back.  We gathered some of those feathers, as well.  I suspect the small pile marked the spot where Chester was killed, then dragged off to the shallow depression fifty paces away . . . .  All the signs pointed to Chester being the victim of a bobcat.

There was nothing left of Chester to bury except for the two little piles of feathers.  Vi and I gathered a few more feathers of various sizes and the one bone to bring home with us.  (We thought of taking more to spread around our yard, but the summer molt was just about over, and certainly Chester's feathers already littered our yard - his essence would always be with us.)  The remainder of the two feather piles we decided to leave in the field, like ashes to scatter with the breeze through a field that was part of the home Chester loved for six years.



After Chester:

Autumn came upon us as a bleak and dreary thing.  Everywhere we looked, there were scores of wonderful Chester memories.  They clashed horribly with his absence.  Granted, the weather was fine, sunny and mild, but the mood was awful, for me, for Vi and for Chester's friends.  The splintering of Chester's flock turned into deep fractures - Rupert and the three young toms made up the first group, the remaining Gobblets that joined Chester last winter made a second group, the previous year's remainder of young made up the third group.  The groups spent less and less time together.  The younger groups slowed their visits to a few times a week.  The four toms split their time between wandering about the yard and wandering elsewhere, sometimes staying away for two or three days.  Each time they returned, Rupert, seemed lost without Chester.  It was unbearable watching his suffering.  It was even harder to watch when the inevitable occurred - one of the four had to become the new dominant male.

Wilt quickly bullied Walt and Theodore into submission.  It appeared that still caught up in the agony of having lost his best friend,  Rupert just didn't want to partake in the sparring.  It almost felt like he was still waiting for Chester to return, to reclaim his rank as patriarch.  But Wilt kept goading Rupert, chasing him, flying into him, challenging him.  When Rupert finally started defending himself, somehow it triggered Walt to join in . . . defending his brother, Wilt.  Theodore tried a few times to stand by Rupert, but Wilt and Walt overpowered him and drove Theodore off across the field.  Not too long after, Wilt and Walt drove off Rupert, too.  As much as I wanted to stand by Rupert, this was a right of passage he'd have to win on his own.  Nevertheless, it was disheartening to see him go.

No one showed up for two days.

The first to return were Wilt and Walt.  But our allegiance was to Rupert, and we didn't offer them any feed.  About ten minutes later, I saw one other turkey slowly cross the field.  It was Theodore.  He stopped about a hundred feet from the fence.  He wanted to come for some corn, but he was afraid of Wilt.  When the two toms realized they weren't going to get fed, they returned to the field, where Wilt again chased off Theodore.

Two days later, Rupert showed up, alone.  I looked out the bedroom window, and found him sitting quietly by the power pole, a spot he and Chester often lounged in, together.  He seemed quite nervous, continually looking this way and that.  When he saw me peering through the window, he instantly perked up.

Vi and I rushed down to join him, but unlike the friendly Rupert we'd known for so long, he wouldn't let us get close.  He kept nervously shuffling around, on guard against something.  Hoping to help calm him, Vi tossed several pieces of bread, eventually coaxing him to eat.  I poured him a cup of corn in his usual spot.  Vi led him there with a trail of bread bits.  Calming a bit, he started to eat, his soft, soothing chortles letting us know he was grateful.  We told him how good it was to see him again, and that he shouldn't give up.  We assured him that in spite of Wilt's actions, our yard was now his yard - Chester would have wanted that.  When he heard Chester's name, he stopped eating and stared at us.  He offered several odd chortles, then continued eating.  As Rupert nervously finish his dinner, we continually assured him he would always be welcome here, that we were on his side.  In spite of our offer, when Rupert finished eating, he headed off across the field to his new roost.  It was good to see him again, but sad to see him wander off.

The next day, just before sunset, two turkeys returned.  At first we thought it was Wilt and Walt, but to our joy and relief, it was Rupert and Theodore.  We were thankful they had found each other; it was much safer than being alone.  We offered them a hearty dinner that they nervously enjoyed.  We assumed there were additional daily encounters between Wilt and Rupert that we didn't witness.  While the reunited pair finished their dinner, Vi and I stood guard and encouraging them to be friends.  Of course, we knew they didn't understand what we were saying, but we figured from our tone to them both, each would know they were welcome.

The following noon, Wilt and Walt showed up.  Vi and I ignored them.  Wilt seemed annoyed at something, and started taking his aggressions out on Walt.  We felt sorry for Walt, but we understood why he chose to stay with his brother.  In Walt's defense, I broke up the argument, and herded Wilt toward the fence.  Walt followed, and he and Wilt hurried through the opening and disappeared across the neighbor's field.  At sunset, more turkeys came.  It was the Gobblets, joined by several small hens, perhaps the remains of another Gobblets group.  Vi and I were just saying that we were glad to see they had returned when we noticed a confusing but familiar sight.  Of the eight Gobblets approaching, one of the smaller ones was gamely struggling to keep up.  It had a pronounced limp, as though its left ankle or knee had suffered some sort of injury - the same leg Chester had injured.  Needless to say, we took an immediate liking to him.  We offered them all dinner.  They too seemed nervous.  They did, however, finish everything, and we talked to them as they lingered, but they didn't stay long.  Rupert and Theodore didn't show up.

For three days, no toms showed up.  The Gobblets showed up once.  We hoped Rupert and Theodore were alright.

On the fourth day, again about sunset, Vi and I spotted three toms walking slowly across the neighbor's field.  They were too far away for old eyes to make out identifying details.  We watched nervously as they approached.  The tom to the right, the smaller of the three, had a pronounced limp, but was easily able to keep up - again oddly, he limped with his left leg.  The center tom walked comfortably, continually looking to the toms to his left and right.  The larger of the three birds, the one to the left, walked with a slow, steady gate.  He seemed purposely slow, even occasionally pausing, as though to ensure the injured tom could keep up.  The easiest way to tell the toms apart was by their beards - Rupert had an outward curve to the lower half of his beard and it was about eight inches long; Walt's beard was conventional in shape and was now about five inches long; Wilt's beard was also conventional and was about three and a half inches long; Theodore's beard was always scruffy, like three inches of chronic bed-head.  Up close, they could also be recognized by the uniqueness of each tom's face - Theodore looks almost like Chester.  Though each is unique, Walt and Wilt have more traditional faces (Walt's right profile, however, is also quite a ringer for Chester's right profile), and Walt's snood still stood out from Wilt's abuse to it; it was also much lighter than all the others' snoods.  The best way to describe Rupert's face is sleek, his profile strong, Scandinavian.  But until they came within beard range, we only had the clue of how they were acting to dare hope who they were.

The few minutes it took them to cross the field seemed much longer.  But finally, we could just make out the beards.  The limping tom to the right had a scruffy little bed-head beard.  It was Theodore.  The center tom had a conventional beard, about five inches long.  It was Walt.  Vi and I held our breath as we focused on the beard of the leftmost tom.  Against his dark body, at first, it was hard to tell which way the end curved - in toward the body, like a conventional beard, or curving out like Rupert's beard.  Several more steps, and the end of the beard was plainly visible.  It had an outward curve.  It was Rupert.  Vi and I were ecstatic.

By the time Rupert, Walt and Theodore joined us at their old feeding stations, we were ready with their dinner.  There was an odd - for lack of a better word - aura about them.  It made me think of war-weary comrades returning home after the decisive battle.  As usual, we chatted as they ate.  They chortled and conversed back, taking turns to stretch and look about.  We all spoke in soft, reassuring tones.  The boys finished their dinner, and we offered bits of bread, much more than we normally would.  They accepted the dessert, but not in the way they used to.  When we tossed them bread in the past, everyone would rush in.  The biggest and most aggressive would usually get the most.  Vi and I always tried to make sure everyone got a fair share, especially Chester and Rupert, but Wilt always rushed in, managing to get many pieces intended for the others.  One scolding from Chester and Rupert usually kept Walt and Theodore a bit backed off, so Walt and Theodore always got tossed a few extra pieces away from the others.  This time, however, there was no scurrying around to get a piece of bread before someone else got it.  They fanned out in front of us, and each waited patiently for their fair share.  Impressed by their behavior, we fed them until they couldn't hold any more.  With full bellies, they headed toward the fence - Rupert confidently in the lead, his two seconds comfortably in tow.  Single file they went through the opening, then three-abreast they walked slowly to their roost.

The three boys started showing up regularly.  Each seemed content with their rank, and they started working more like a unit, like Chester and Rupert had.  There was still the periodic display of muscle flexing, but there was nothing overly aggressive or malicious about it.  The muscle flexing was about being turkeys, about being comrades.  Their acceptance of each other was growing, weaving a tight web of allegiance and friendship.

The Gobblets started showing up regularly, as well.  At first, they made sure the big fighting toms weren't bullying everyone around, but when they saw the toms were no longer dealing with differences, they occasionally mingled with them.  It seemed there was hope for the flock to regroup.

Several days later, six of last year's hens returned.  At first, the Gobblets wanted to chase them off.  My guess is, they eventually recognized each other, because the next day all 14 turkeys came for dinner, together.  Several minutes later, Rupert, Walt and Theodore joined them.  Everyone ate peacefully.  Now, almost two weeks later, we usually have seventeen turkeys coming for breakfast and dinner every day.  They also often spend much of the day foraging in the yard, just like they did when Chester was here.  Rupert, in spite of the debilitating loss of his best friend was able to overcome his obstacles and claim his right as dominant male.  He is a benevolent and respected leader, bonded in peace with Theodore and Walt - Rupert learned well from Chester.  And continuing Chester's legacy, by reuniting the flock, Rupert has become the new Keeper of the Flock.  Chester's higher self must be exceedingly pleased and proud . . . we know we are.



Epilogue:

The last time we saw Wilt was three days before Rupert, Walt and the injured Theodore returned home.  We don't know what happened during those three days.  We can only surmise that Wilt's ongoing aggressiveness was his own undoing, that in the end he also alienated his brother, Walt - a peaceful fellow who fit in better with Rupert and Theodore.  But being peaceful does not mean being weak or being stupid.  My guess would be that the two pairs of toms had continual confrontations for those three days.  I like to think that Rupert's and Theodore's final strategy is where Theodore received his injury.  Though Wilt was stronger, more aggressive and faster than Theodore, I can picture a very brave Theodore sacrificing himself to charge in and engage Wilt, then using Theodore's sacrifice to catch Wilt off guard, Rupert charged in to deal the vanquishing blows.  I would assume Walt was confronted next but willingly submitted to Rupert after only a few challenges.  Since I've never heard of toms looking to fight to the death, I can't picture that Wilt could have been killed in the match, but considering Theodore's injury, Wilt was probably hurt as well, perhaps badly.  Theodore's injury now appears to be almost completely healed.  His limp is mostly gone.  As for Wilt, we wonder if he succumbed to the same fate as Chester.

Chester . . . , dear little Chester . . . , there are no words for how much we miss him, for how much we love him.  The yard is returning to normal, but how can it when there are so many beautiful memories of such a fine and wonderful being, thoughts that can only be relived, never again added to.  There are holes without him . . . so many holes that only he can fill.  Chester is the quintessence of what happens when the world meets perfection.  We are thankful to him for sharing that perfection with us.  We are thankful for having been allowed to love him.

In Chester's absence, Vi and I, like Rupert and the boys, will carry on his legacy, keeping his flock together, sharing our home and who we are with each other.  Proud to be a member of his family, my blue wings and red sparring colors, if needed, are at the ready.