Turkey Time!

It’s turkey time!

No, I’m not talking about Thanksgiving, although a lot of people refer to this time of year — right before Thanksgiving — as “Turkey Time.”

It has a ring to it.

“Turkey Time!” you shout when you bring home a big bird that you will, eventually, ruin in your oven.

Or, at least, I would —though I don’t do the big bird-cooking thing. It’s too complicated. It’s too much like work.

I usually shout “Turkey Time!” when I hit the deli and get a pound of sliced turkey meat.

“I’ll have a pound of the mesquite-smoked pine nut applewood bacon and pimento turkey breast,” I say.

“How do you want that sliced?” I am always asked.

“You use that little machine over there,” I point out. “Don’t do it by hand with a knife; you’ll wear yourself out.”

I am very considerate that way.

But the “Turkey Time” I’m talking about is that herd, gaggle, pride, roving band, gang ... Whatever it is you call turkeys — who wander around the grounds near the ol’’ condo.

As the weather gets cooler the turkeys come out to play on a daily basis.

I don’t really think they’re playing, though. I’m pretty sure they’re looking for stuff to eat.

Bugs and whatnot.

So, I guess the turkeys call it “Bugs and Whatnot Time!”

Yum yum.

Sorry, I digress.

Turkey Time! (yes, I plan on registering that phrase as a trademark thing, or copyright thing, or something) is usually not a problem, though I did almost get attacked once because I tried to talk turkey with the turkeys, but that was a one-off and I’ve learned my lesson.

Sometimes the turkeys will take a break in my driveway and I have to wait for them to get tired of my dog barking at them, or their little turkey feet getting cold from standing on asphalt, and they drift off someplace with better bugs, no barking dog, and warmer asphalt.

Which is OK.


But one night I forgot to close my garage door and when I ventured out to the garage the next morning, I was greeted by a herd, gaggle, pride, roving band, gang ... Whatever it is you call turkeys — who were suddenly taking an interest in what just popped out of the door.


“Oops, sorry,” I said as I made a hasty retreat.

You don’t want to surprise turkeys like that. They get all gnarly and try to peck your eyes out, even though they can’t reach them so they just pockmark your shins.

So I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Then I had a bright idea. I cracked open the door and shouted, “I’ll have a pound of the mesquite-smoked pine nut applewood bacon and pimento turkey breast!”

I waited a few minutes then I cracked the door open a little more.

One turkey was behind the wheel of my vehicle, two more were under the hood trying to figure out if they could start it from there, and three or four more were pulling everything out of the vehicle trying, I assumed, to find a spare key.

A couple of others were carrying luggage and trying to figure out how to store it all. I bet they were none too pleased that I don’t have a luggage rack.

OK, so that plan didn’t work out so well.

So, I did what I do best — I took a nap.

Not a long one, just a short respite because my head was hurting a little from thinking up plans all morning.

Sure enough, when I woke up from my nap, hungry of all things for a mesquite-smoked pine nut applewood bacon and pimento turkey breast sandwich, the turkeys had mosied along to better pickings, greener pastures, a car they could start.

Whatever it is turkeys are always on the lookout for. Yeah, it’s “Turkey Time,”