A wild turkey tale

By Greg Dennis

‘Twas the week before Christmas when all through the neighbourhood a story was stirring of a strange visitor to Birch Cliff, a most unusual intruder never seen in these parts before.

Some dismissed the sighting as hearsay, but Michael McCann insisted what he saw was real.

He spotted the interloper outside the Hav-A-Nap Motel (near Kingston Road and Midland) not checking in but clearly checking out the surroundings.

It surprised Michael, no question, but fascinated him just the same.

He tweeted and told anyone who would listen about his discovery. In no time the rumour spread through the neighbourhood faster than a Pickering commuter on Kingston Rd.

There was a turkey in the ‘hood.

We’re not talking butterball here. This was, according to our witness, a real live wild turkey: a long-legged, bald-headed bird the size of a second grader.

Most likely it was an Eastern Wild Turkey, common in the southern states but with a northern range that includes Maine, Michigan – and Ontario.

To get here, it would simply fly. Something its domestic cousin is unable to master.

We’ve seen other southern creatures come this far. More and more possums are spotted shivering their snouts off in Birch Cliff backyards these days.

But still — a wild turkey?

Some sceptics doubted Michael’s report, especially since this gobbler was proving to be elusive. Maybe he had seen a buzzard or a large grouse. Maybe he had a few shots of the joy juice of the same name before he had that close encounter of the bird kind.

But I believed my friend. Partly because I know he prefers wine to bourbon. But mostly because I wanted it to be true. And I wanted to see the winged beast for myself.

I also had an ulterior motive. Christmas was around the corner, the family was coming for dinner and the prospects of fresh fowl had me salivating like Homer Simpson at a Tim Hortons.

Plus, how manly that would be – catching and bringing home dinner, just like my ancient ancestors did.

I’ve dabbled in macho Christmas traditions before, making like a lumberjack to cut down a tree.

But wandering around a tree farm like a zombie with van loads of other undead suburbanites,  looking at the same perfectly groomed trees, does nothing to satisfy your inner caveman.

This turkey hunt then would be my quest for fire. Cue the chest thumping.

My plan had a couple of problems. For one, I’ve never hunted in my life. And now more than ever, I wouldn’t touch a gun with a ten-foot pole. But luckily, I did indeed have a ten-foot pole. I just needed to cut it in half.

I went to bed early and set my alarm. The next day, after downing a few cups of coffee and reading the paper, I packed a sandwich inside a FreshCo grocery bag I had hidden from Toronto City Council, grabbed my five-foot pole and was out the door at the crack of noon.

I wore an Elmer Fudd hunting hat, complete with orange ear flaps, and felt quite rugged as I traversed the side streets towards the Eastern Wild Turkey’s newly adopted habitant near a roadside motel.

Looking for a blind like one Jim from Wild Kingdom would use in tiger country while Marlin Perkins waited in the Jeep,  I found a perfectly indigenous hiding spot and crouched down behind the rusting green dumpster.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever had to do something like this, sitting perfectly still, barely breathing, completely focused on a mission. It ain’t easy. And it got to me.

I was singing Silent Night in my head, over and over again. And then the hallucinations kicked in.

When I saw Dalton McGuinty dancing in the field with Ms. Secher and other Birch Cliff teachers, I knew I was going insane.

I checked my watch. A full 15 minutes had gone by. I would be a lousy choice as a sentry to protect us from alien invasions.

I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite. Another mistake. I quickly realized that because of the wild turkey’s advanced olfactory abilities, my prey was now high-tailing it, chased away by the scent of one of its relatives sliced and slathered in mayo.

Desperate now to continue my mission – and protect my dignity – I had another idea. I ventured to the north, climbing up hills and over busy streets.

When I finally arrived at my new destination, there he was.

He looked at me with dark beady eyes and nodded his head in my direction, indicating that my time was nigh. Leaning on the meat counter at Sun Valley, the red-cloaked clerk asked what I wanted.

A turkey, I said. The biggest one you’ve got.

It wasn’t the way I planned it but there’s something about bringing home food you’ve bagged yourself that makes you feel sort of tribal.

We will have a fantastic Christmas dinner of roasted domestic turkey and all the trimmings. I will continue my search for the Wild One.

I won’t be hunting in the traditional sense but I will track the big bird down.  A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

And I swear I will get on that right after my Christmas nap.

Greg Dennis is a communications advisor and longtime Birch Cliff resident.