“Game bird feed” sounds innocuous enough. It doesn’t sound off alarm bells or summon the DEA. Despite this, I have come to believe it is a drug right up there with cocaine and heroin. They all want it; they all crave it; they drive themselves crazy trying to get to it. It came on rather gradually. One day soon after we had begun to let the turkeys out of their pen during the day, I noticed Lucky, the alpaca, inside the bird pen eating out of the top of the turkey and duck food dispenser. I chased him out and didn’t think much of it. Well, apparently he liked it because he kept coming back and, even worse, he began to tell his fibery friends about the new delicious grainy high.
Even when I did not catch them in the act, I saw the tell-tale dust of grain bird feed around their lips and noses. Suddenly, the food dispenser began emptying at three to four times its previous rate and David
David
Then Leroy almost left the farm yard. I heard him bleating, continuous but weak and when I went outside to see what the problem was, he could barely walk. He tried, brave boy, but fell over on his back, legs useless in the air and belly distended. I got him back up and in the shade and ran inside to call the vet. Before doing so, I quickly looked up his symptoms and figured he had eaten the GBF and was bloating. I knew nothing could be done that didn’t involve emergency surgery and monstrous vet bills and, although I love the little guy, right now we just can’t shell out thousands on a ram lamb that cost us $200. I sat with him, tried to keep him comfortable, and prayed. He seemed a little better. I began checking on him every twenty minutes and then thirty and then began sending one of the kids to do it as he improved.
This morning he is none the worse for wear but sadly and frustratingly, did not learn his lesson because he was right back in the turkey pen eating the damned druggy grain first chance he got. I put the turkeys back in and had resigned myself to just keeping them penned but felt too guilty as they looked at me in confusion (granted they do this a lot already) and gobbled.
What did I do? At 7 am, unsuitably farmered up in jammies and flip flops, I grabbed the wire cutters and fashioned a turkey door, hopefully small enough to keep the addicts out and large enough to let the turkeys roam. The jury is still out on whether the newest solution is a success or not. The ruminants have not gotten in but the turkeys, who have consistently escaped their pen despite our efforts to contain them, have not figured out the obvious means of exit. My confidence in their intelligence is waning. At least, they’re enjoying the new picture window.
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