Turkey

My mother called me to come quickly to the front door. A turkey had just walked by. Now, we live in a three-story townhouse condominium within a mile of Fenway Park and definitely not in any turkey's normal habitat. But this turkey, let's call him Francisco, decided to visit Coolidge Corner today.

By the time I got down to the door, my mom was having trouble locating the turkey. Her and another woman were peering into the brush in front of our building. No sign of Francisco. When we rounded the corner, however, Mom cried out, "There he is! Coming down those stairs." Sure enough, Francisco had stepped down off someone's stoop and was walking briskly down Brown St. Mom suggested I herd Francisco through the gate of our shared yard, where we could shut him up and call an animal rescue group. This alone would have been complicated (and he probably could have flown out), but it was near impossible because there are half a dozen painters working on our neighbors' trim atop an equal number of ladders, gabbing and listening to Spanish radio.

I can only imagine what the painter in the new Red Sox cap thought when a turkey came trotting down the sidewalk followed by me, padding along in my bare feet.

"Thanksgiving Day?", asked the painter jokingly.