Dear Wigleaf,

Once, my dad called me. He lives about 200 yards away.

"Son," he said, "you won't believe it."

He said, "Your mom and I were over at the neighbors', and when we came back the kitchen window"—this huge thick window—"was shattered. Slabs of it all over the breakfast table. And feathers mixed in with the glass. And Sophia, our beloved dachshund, missing."

Now, this window was big enough small birds would mistake it for sky and dive into it. But it was also a quarter of an inch thick. It had never been nicked.

"Clearly a red-tailed hawk has swooped in and grabbed our beloved pet!" he said.

"Or so we thought," he said. "Because Sophia appeared, barking her ferocious little heart out, but she would not come in the kitchen. And then," he said, "we saw it."

I held the phone a little closer.

"Son, under one of our kitchen chairs is a wild turkey. Come over," he said, "and help me shoot it in the brain with my BB gun."

So, my son and I go over there. But I'm thinking, you think the glass and feathers are messy now? If you shoot that wild turkey . . .

The glass was thick on the floor. It squealed and screeched under our feet. My son and I tried to talk my dad out of the BB gun while turning the remaining chairs on their sides, forming a nice chute right out the kitchen door. We grabbed brooms and hooked them around the kitchen chair the turkey was too afraid to leave. We dragged the chair and so also the turkey toward the door, like you do.

But the turkey wasn't having it. It panic-flapped its way out from under the chair, panting in my parent's middle-class kitchen.

The dog went crazy, trying to both leap out of my mom's arms to attack and run away. My dad brought up the BB gun again. But my son and I chased the wild turkey like hockey players after a loose puck, and we got it out the door just in time.

We still find bits of glass in that kitchen today. But after we were done, we did all go get a nice sandwich.

Left that dog behind.

These, Wigleaf, are the days of my life.


Thanks,

Steve