It will come as no real upset to followers of this blog (and visitors to my house) that my dear turkey went to meet his maker yesterday morning at the hands of the same rogue fox that killed five of my hens last week. “Shane” had been a popular fixture in my garden for the past two years, and was looking forward to Christmas in the sure knowledge that I was not going to touch a hair on his revoltingly wrinkled head.
I found him bound and gagged in the brambles with the marks of freshly sharpened teeth in the back of his neck. The fox dragged him twenty yards, then drew the same conclusion I had last Christmas when I realised that, despite his bulk and volume, there was not very much meat on him – just an unpleasant tangle of bone and erectile tissue.
I don’t know how I am going to break the news to the postman, who used to keep a broom handle by the gate so that he could defend himself from Shane’s amorous approaches during the spring, but I suppose that he will be in good company at the pearly gates, surrounded by thousands of his brethren as part of the annual high-water-mark of turkey mortality.
And if there is any consolation I can take from his death, it will be that I won’t have quite so much bird shit on the bonnet of my car.