CLOSE TO HOME: The story of Otis, a turkey

I called him Otis because of the slow, deliberate way he moved and the thoughtful look in his eye.

We had 56 chickens — about half of them bellicose roosters — a swampy Muscovy called Riley, Ace of Ducks; two Nubians named Calypso and Africa and their consort, an Alpine called Max. There was a mallard family as well, and six geese once abandoned and malnourished who were enjoying retirement above Guerneville.

The big Malamute came later. He wanted us all to himself and eventually got his way, but at that time goats danced on the hood of my Civic, Carmen and Jazzy laid eggs in the light wells and in the wisteria. And I had four poults — two bronze turkeys and two white hollands.

I followed Otis’ rapid growth on a triple beam balance scale I got from an entrepreneur at Midgeley’s. He turned into 40 pounds of iridescence, with a sassy snood and a scraggly beard. The roosters laughed behind his back and the goats pirouetted on their hind legs and never took him seriously. But he had attitude. He was impatient, and he was moody.

He’d riffle his feathers and do the Chameleon, pulsing his hot purple-to-blue-to-alabaster head while stalking whatever it was that ticked him off. From his infancy, I hand-fed Otis and his siblings earwigs and sowbugs, messaged their rubbery warm old-man pates and cooed to them, and I knew they loved me. Especially Pearl, who would lean her pristine white body against my hip and collapse on the ground if I walked away.

Thought of as lacking intelligence, turkeys have been found to make 18 separate and distinct vocalizations, and I came to understand about two-thirds of them: “A stranger is in the yard” “That rooster pisses me off” “I’d like to make it with that duck” “You’d better get the hell away from that June Bug” and “Good to see you dad, I’m glad you’re home.”

Pearl, Calvin, Juanita and Otis had a language all their own. But Otis’ size, his unpredictability, and his baleful stare carried a lot of weight among the yardbirds.

One day, Gloria, my spouse, was delighting in a newly harvested apricot when she noticed Otis eyeballing her from a few feet away. Used to having him close by, she paid little attention when he drew closer. Unmindful of where apricot ended and lip began, Otis made his move. Gloria yelled and jerked her head back, but it was too late. Otis had the apricot, and he had a piece of lip. He also had her number.

This little biped wasn’t going to push him around any more. In fact, he owned her. He’d hide behind the henhouse, and when Gloria walked by, she would hear the quick footsteps rushing up behind her. Otis became a relentless terror. And each day, he seemed to savor it more.

Then one morning our neighbor backed her Datsun pickup out of her driveway too swiftly and mangled our barnyard terror. Broken body crumpled in a pitiful heap, I gathered Otis up and raced into Forestville. But all the doctor could do was stitch him together. His body was forever damaged, and his cockiness and regal posture lay broken in the dust.

Goodwill sold me one of those baby walkers with cables. I’d lift Otis off his bed of straw each morning and situate him in there, parking the device in the shade of his favorite apricot tree. He’d sit, like a tired tribal elder, dreamily watching the flirting, jostling, scratching and hot barnyard antics, and at dusk we’d park him on his straw bed and gently kiss his head goodnight.

He lasted four months like that before finally giving it up. His hope had evaporated. We lovingly wrapped him in old burlap sacks, placed him on the Honda’s back seat and drove to a lonely meadow atop Mt. Jackson. There we carried him out and lay him in the shade of a ancient, solitary oak.

The ride home was very quiet except for the sniffling, and Gloria and I couldn’t do much, except sit around on the sofa holding each other, and watch the sun turn pale in the chill, gray October afternoon.

Stephen D. Gross is host of “The Mystery Train” on KGGV-FM 95.1 and on KOWS 107.3. He lives in Monte Rio.