|About five days old, and quite charming|
In the case of turkey poults, the cuteness doesn't last long.
|About a week and a half old, starting to fledge.|
Soon enough, those cute little fuzz'ums are wearing weird fashions, demanding to use the family car, and
|We sleep with our butts in the puddle, because all the kids are doing it.|
staying out until the strange hours of the night.
|Noo no no no, we don't smoke it no more...|
|Doorway? What doorway?|
|They peck the side of the shed, the paint on the barn wall, |
and the gravel in the paddock, but shriek in fear
and run away when I toss in some homemade bread.
All of their splendid decision-making is adding to their personal beauty...or not.
|Veloci-vulture. Not a good look.|
They are a little short on survival strategies.
|Hey Dragon, we can share dinner with you, right?|
|We totally won't fall asleep and drown in this tank.|
And increasingly short on charm.
|It's hard to soar with eagles when your mum was a turkey.|
At least they provide regular doses of humor.
|We are bored. Also: what's a pun?|
We were worried that we would get too attached to the little ones to be able to eat them later.
Not worried now.
|Turkey dinner: sounds good to me!|
Thanksgiving is coming. We just need to keep the little idiots alive until November.
Sounds easy, right?