The other morning Daddy and Mommy were looking out the window to our back yard. “ I wonder what has the slope noses attention,” I thought as I walked over to look out the sliding back doors. Then I saw it, standing under the bird feeders my neighbor had spent so much time critter-proofing, eating the bird feed cleaned out by the squirrels, a great, big, fat, wild turkey. “Quick,” I said to Pocket, “run upstairs and get my shotgun!” “You don’t have a shotgun,” Pocket said, “Mommy wouldn’t let you have one.” Oh to be a right wing conservative Yorkie in a left wing liberal household. “Then let’s dart outside and attack it. I’ll take the soft tender meaty underbelly while you go for the sharp, vice like beak. “Oh I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Pocket says. Danm her intermittent bursts of common sense. Then we settled down to watch it gobble it’s way through lunch, until it waddled back into the woods. We decided to name it so we’ll know what to call it next time it snacks in our yard. We’re going to call that fat turkey Levi.
Then on Monday Pocket and I got fowled again. We were on our walk around the youth softball fields when we spotted, playing centerfield on a vacant diamond, a Canadian Goose. Now I have a fine relationship with them, I help them find the greenest grass to feast on, they poop on the heads of my enemies. But Pocket has yet to reach this level of friendship with our feathered friends. She ran to the fence and barked, barked, barked. The goose turned to her and went bah, bah, bah, bah: Being fluent in both languages I knew Pocket was saying: “Hey, hey, hey, hey” and the Goose was saying “Bah, bah, bah, bah.” Then the Goose began to strut across the outfield, and Pocket stood on her back two legs and tried to copy her and planted herself on her face. Now she was angry. She got up and began sticking her nose under the fence growling. The Goose, who must of thought she had encountered a chipmunk with a glandular problem spread out her wings a bahed back loudly. Then she reached down between her legs and pulled out a gosling, which she placed on her beak. She then flicked her head in the air and the bird flipped over landing right in front of Pocket. Now Pocket was trying to charge the field and it took all of today’s somewhat embarrassing lack of strength to pull this five pounds of hell away from the field and back towards our car. When we got back into the car for the ride home I asked Pocket why she got so upset and she said: “Oh Foley, you know how much I hate to be flipped the bird.”