Fiona as a baby, with her siblings

A professional artist captured her perfectly

Walking toward me; "what are you up to?"

This month, while baby goats were being born and mother nature was freezing the farm, Peace Ridge Sanctuary lost Fiona the turkey.  She outlived her siblings, who had joined her here a few years ago.  The picture above is her as a poult, surrounded by the others she would outlive-- I'm sad I never new her as a baby but proud that I was paying attention as she taught me lessons I chose to listen to in the summer of 2014.  Commercial birds not only can’t fly, but they aren't supposed to be talked to, not supposed to be seen as intelligent, and the selective breeding for more and more meat makes them unlikely to live long as their hearts can’t keep up.  While Fiona probably succumbed to a heart condition, it’s not cliché to say she fed the hearts of many more with her unique Fiona way.

My friend, Fiona

Prior to meeting Fiona, I had known turkeys as the birds that scared me as I ran the trails, surprised to discover they not only can fly in the wild but also roost up high.  I knew them as the animals along the ridge of the farm I rode my bike by, intentionally taking a long route to work to see if they would be there amid the cows in the farm not far from urban life.  I knew them, of course, as a food product for much of my life.  I did not know that an estimated 46 million turkeys are killed each year for our holiday celebrations, that commercial birds (as I would learn to call them) were bred in such a way they would never fly after their first few months like their wild cousins—we bred them for weighty meat that prevents flying.  I did not know that the personality of a turkey is as real and personal as every animal I’ve ever called a friend—cat, dog, bird, turkey

In the summer of 2014, I spent 2 weeks at Peace Ridge on vacation, volunteering and camping at a campsite nearby.  I cleaned bunny stalls, helped with random tasks, ran from a grumpy (and ironically, loveable) rooster, filled water dishes, and got followed by a turkey.  I learned quickly that, if I got to the Sanctuary early enough I could open up Fiona’s home that she shared with some chickens and be there when she walked out to greet the morning with curiosity and clucking.  I learned to try to mimic her…not even close, but she would make noises back.  And, just like the cats at home, if she was in the mood she would tell you to slow down, touch her head, scratch her back, and she would literally melt into the ground purring.  Slow down.  She said it. I heard it. 

I put up a fence to hide the piles of barn waste behind her little home and she watched.  She inspected.  I dug a hole and Fiona put her head into it and then looked at me—I assumed she was inspecting.  One morning she disappeared and I walked around looking for her…I found her down the driveway near the road and I had to herd her back up to safety.  We think she was looking for a place to lay down and try to lay an egg.  She was lonely, seeking companionship, and she would say ‘Slow Down’ and I would stop for her, often.

I bragged about her, took pictures of her, introduced her to many people .  I couldn't bring her to Portland but I had people join me in an event to paint her image as a group to raise awareness of other turkeys like her, and I walked around and played her sound I keep on my phone.   She was the inspiration for the paint event, for our calendar, and for me asking my family not to have turkey if they could accommodate at Christmas dinner.  They accommodated.

Fiona is forever with me, just like the cats and dogs I’ve known...won't you share your memories of her and pictures here as well in the comments?