Read Online Horsekeeping by Roxanne Bok - Free Book Online Page B

holding the little sparrow and admired its intricate design—rubbery clawed feet, patterned feathers etched in infinite shades of brown, silky white breast—so delicate, soft, perfect.
    Jane sang more songs, a stone marked the plot, flowers were picked and laid in memoriam, and stories illustrating the bird’s imagined life and family were concocted. I wished I remembered my Tennyson. Both kids repeatedly visited the grave that day and tried to dig it up the next, but I put the kibosh on that, citing respect for the dead. In a few days it was completely forgotten.
    Bird trauma dogged us. The next summer a game of badminton edged us from the lawn toward the tall grass. A movement caught my eye, only about ten yards to my left.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked Scott, moving slowly toward it.
    â€œIs it a cat?” He thought of the feral opportunists that hide in the bushes under our birdfeeders.
    â€œI think it’s a turkey.” I motioned the kids to keep back.
    It is unusual to get this close to a turkey. They have keen eyesight and are swifter of foot than you might guess for such large, awkward fliers. When we moved to Salisbury sixteen years ago, turkeys were rare. The few released onto Canaan Mountain twenty years ago slowly multiplied, and now a large group often crosses our yard, nervously bobbing and weaving through their reclaimed territory. They espy every movement, even our still, barely breathing bodies through the glass in the house as we watch them, and our fast little dog Velvet doesn’t have a chance even when she happens to be lying in wait in the grass.
    This turkey sensed me and ran a few paces. At each sound of my creeping it raised and cocked its head in my direction.
    â€œIt can hear but I don’t think it can see me,” I reported.

    A crust covered the top of its head, including its eyes. I inched within two feet, and it scurried only slightly away. This was a blinded turkey.
    â€œWhat do we do now?” I queried.
    â€œI guess we just let nature take its course,” Scott hit the badminton birdie back to the impatient kids. WHACK. “You know the animal control people” WHACK “aren’t particularly interested in helping.” WHACK. “You’ll never get anywhere” WHACK “with them.”
    He was right. Once we called about a limping, mangy coyote staggering around our field in the middle of the day. We started with the police and chased a long sequence of phone numbers from the EPA to local animal control. No “authority” could help. I remembered John Bottass, our neighboring farmer telling us, “You’re best off just shootin’ it yourself.”
    We do not own any firearms, but occasionally we hear a few shots go off nearby. Our next door neighbor, Mrs. Kilner, was known to prowl nocturnally, aiming an ancient rifle at coyotes who menaced her rescued greyhounds. I am not in favor of guns in most circumstances, but the one good argument for weaponry is to be able to put down, quickly and efficiently, an injured and suffering creature. That we euthanize animals is one way we are more humane to them than to ourselves.
    We left the turkey alone, allowing some space to avoid stressing it. But later that afternoon it remained, having scarcely moved. I thought of the possible nighttime scenarios. It could be quickly dispatched by a couple of coyotes. That would be the best. Or it could make it through the night, and the next and the next, panicky and ill until it starved to death. Either way, I knew I couldn’t rest with inaction. We eventually trapped the turkey with an overturned recycling bin and transported it thirty minutes to the Sharon Audubon Center where they examined and euthanized it. Our adventure had taken about three hours, and I hoped Elliot had learned something from it. A sad outcome, but we did our best and alleviated some suffering. Dying animals are tough for most people, and as my kids