Last week Tom discovered a dead turkey down near our little pond. There were no signs of violence or obvious cause of death. We suppose it died of natural causes. I'm sure that happens occasionally in nature, doesn't it?
Well, Belle was with him that day. We're not sure if she acted alone, or if Max was the culprit, or it was teamwork, but that dead turkey somehow made its way up to our front porch. It was waiting for us when we came home from a birthday party that night, resting on one side of a doggy bed.
"No dead animals on the porch!" I told them, shaking my finger at the carcass. Then Tom scooped it onto a shovel (which we keep nearby for this reason!) and tossed it off the porch, into the woods.
The next morning it was back. Obviously, from a dog's perspective, a porch is a perfectly logical place to store a dead turkey.
But I don't share that view, and I'm the boss. We didn't have time to dispose of it again until that evening because of church and work, but this time, I scooped it up and carried it far into the woods, fussing at the dogs the whole way. Then (wearing gloves and continuing my tirade) I shook out the blankets and swept the feathers off of the porch.
Just a difference of opinion... but mine won.
I didn't take a photo of the turkey. Even I draw the line somewhere. But its feathers were beautiful, stinky as they were. The black and white pattern reminded me of my Frankie's feathers, so, well, I couldn't resist. I'm grateful I didn't see the turkey while it was alive, or its death would have reminded me too, too much of Frankie.
Time truly is a balm to a broken heart. I can see the feathers or look at photos of his funny face, and instead of crying, I smile at the memories and the joy he brought me during the short time we had together.
Okay, maybe I cry a little. I still miss my Frankie bird.