(Turkey Lurkey from last year (40 lbs))

We have a massive, 50 pound (give or take) turkey hen. Erik bought her last year as a chick with hopes (I think) of eating her. He also bought a cornish hen (these are eating birds that grow to size within 8 weeks. Typically left longer they die of heart attacks or broken legs due to their size.) both birds grew to massive proportions, both white, but both thriving along with the other chickens.

Last winter both lived in the barn since chicken had  been pecked to death by someone, and I don’t remember why turkey was in there, but maybe for similar reasons. Once warmer weather hit I moved them back to the chicken coop.

This winter Turkey seemed to be failing. She sat on the floor of the small coop with wings extended, offering only a sad “cluck”. Her eyes were half shut and she was breathing hard. By now she was a year and a half old. I had no idea how old this breed lived. She had spent last winter into spring laying eggs, but had stopped late summer. Turkey had given me a massive, single turkey egg each day. They tasted just like turkey!

I figured it was time to butcher her, so I went into the house a few days before Christmas to fetch the cleaver. Erik saw me go by with the knife, asked my intentioned, then told me I couldn’t butcher her for Christmas dinner.

I argued back that her massive breasts were quite juicy, and every time I felt her all I could think of was how delectable she would taste coming out of the oven. Erik argued back that I should try putting her in the barn like last year.

I begrudgingly walked outside. I knew I couldn’t carry a flopping 50 pound bird 200 feet. So I went to the barn and came back with a sled. I’d put a blanket into it so it’d be warm and soft, then pulled it off to the coop.

Turkey was still flopped on the ground, eyes half open, so I pinned her wings down and carefully scooped her up. I carried her a few feet (praying desperately that I didn’t drop her and break her legs) and set her into the sled.

Then I began the task of pulled her up the small hill to the barn . . . without somehow tipping the sled over. Turkey was nervous as I pulled her slowly up toward the barn, but as it came into view, she calmed down realizing where she was going. She sat nicely in the sled, alert, letting me pull her along. Once in the barn, I pushed her out of the sled and into a pile of loose hay in front of a heater.

Turkey never made it to dinner. She perked up having the extra space to move around, and spends her time being groomed by the cats and pestering the roosters who are shut in a horse stall. I go in everyday and give her scratches on her plump turkey thighs. She’s too fat to do it herself, so she gets really happy when I help her out.