Two words: Baby. Turkeys.

In my continuing babblings about wildlife, here is a new and, I'm sure, highly anticipated entry.

Not far up the road from my first turtle rescue, I saw a large male turkey (a tom, right?) plop out of the thick grass on the left side of the road and slowly bobble his way into the grass on the other side (which is, incidentally, an abandoned graveyard featuring a tombstone reading: Gone but Not Forgotten. Ha!).

Being a country girl from way back, a turkey is no big deal. I've seen tons of turkeys. (My grandfather shot a turkey in his front yard two weeks ago, it being turkey season and all. Turkeys are part of our heritage. As is eating them.)

Next, a little gray bit of fluff hopped out of the grass, with a hen next to it.

"Oh, a baby!" I thought. Still, no big deal. I've seen baby turkeys before, too, and while their cuteness melts my heart to near-turtle levels, it's nothing to get ridiculous about.

But they kept coming. When the sixth baby tumbled into the road, I was impressed, and getting a bit wiggly with happiness over all the tiny fuzzy creatures.

But there were still more turkey babies. (For all you trivia buffs, a wee turkey is actually called a "poult". But don't feel sad if you didn't know. I had to look it up. Also, I was right about the toms.)

By the time the twelfth little one bounced out of the grass to bring up the tail end of the Turkey Parade, I was downright giggly. It was a good way to end the seventh-to-the-last day of school (not that I'm counting).

Conclusions:

1. Poult = cute. 12 poults = immediate joy.
2. Turkeys in Virginia are very fertile.
3. Turkeys expect you to wait for them to cross the road. Really.

I was going to write about something else, but Radar is whining and whining because I took his stuffed throw-Panda away from him because he was being impolite about it. If it occurs to me, I'll let you know. I'm about 100% sure that it wasn't about turkeys. Maybe.