Officer Turkey
So, here I am 5am in the morning wandering SteemIt and seeing all these adorably funny stories. Then it hits me...I have one too! The following depicts real events and names have not been changed--we're not even using them on the people and the turkeys don't care.
Let's start with some backstory--my parents have two turkeys. One is so old that he only has half his feathers and the other is evil incarnate. The older turkey is affectionately called Tom. He hobbles because I'm fairly certain he has cancer in his left foot, but he's like three years past his expiration date--so no vets will be involved. The younger turkey is a wild type and the son of Tom. He attacks every woman he sees. He can be a mile down the road at the barn and he'll take off like the second coming of the road runner to come attack you. Judge me, but he has earned the name Satan.
Now that you know the major players. Let's begin.
About three years ago now my mother was home alone while my father was away on business. She had settled in and was sleeping. About midnight the two great pyrenees in the goat pen started raising seven kinds of hell. If you've ever owned a great pyr, you know this is a nightly tradition. She went right back to sleep, but the dogs continued to bark throughout the night.
Morning rolls around and she takes the eskipoo out to go potty at around 8am. This 35lb black ball of fluff started losing her absolute shit. That's when my mother heard the crying. She's still in her nightgown as she shoved the dog back in the house.
To her dismay a car is buried in the mud of our side yard--less than a foot from breaking into the goat pen. The same goat pen where over a dozen mama goats had kidded about a week before. Even at eight am every single one of them were standing along the fence ready for a fight.
So, she follows the crying and finds a young man 'stuck' in a tree being circled by Satan and Tom. Thing is, it's his foot stuck and he's only like a foot off the ground. So, my mother being the practical woman that she is pulls out her cell phone and dials 911.
She calmly tells the guy, "Don't worry I'm calling the police for help."
To which he replies, "No! Don't call the police! They're after me!!"
Naturally this prompts my mother to dial faster. My parents live in a small Indiana town. It's so big we get our own stop sign--we're very proud. Well, within minutes of dialing 911 the entire volunteer fire department was on her doorstep...so basically the entire town.
They started working with the guy. Trying to figure out how to free him from the split in the tree. There was talk of chain saws, the jaws of life, and being Indiana--butter. Finally one intrepid volunteer firefighter bent down and simply lifted his foot. It came right out.
By now the police were getting closer. You have to realize we're twenty minutes from the nearest police station. So, the good ol' boys of the firehouse held onto this dude for dear life until they could get him strapped to the gurney.
As they put it, "If he runs it's the police's problem."
Meanwhile the wheels of justice had been turning. Originally dispatch had said they didn't know of anyone the police had been chasing. Well, a bit of checking later and they found the DEA had conducted a drug bust and the guy had fled. He disappeared into the corn fields of southern Indiana only to appear on our doorstep.
As we approach the thirty minute mark more and more law enforcement start showing up. The local sheriffs and deputies arrive and ten minutes later no less than five DEA SUV's follow them. Our little one lane, one mile road looks like a cop convention. All we were missing was the donuts.
They arrange to have the car towed. The mama goats are still giving everyone the evil eye. One firefighter commented, "He's lucky he ran the way he did because those goats would have killed him."
To which another replied, "If they didn't the big white dog in with them would have."
None of this mattered the man on the gurney. He was still high as a kite and muttering, "The birds...the birds...the birds..."
For you see, from about midnight on after Satan and Tom had chased him into the woods they had a busy night. A busy night pecking him--non-stop--for EIGHT hours.
The sheriff assured my mother that that particular drug addict would be very unlikely to drive down our road again. In the end I guess we can thank "the birds"....