Boston College is great for many reasons. We’ve got great academics, D1 sports, okay food, tons of clubs, but best of all, we’ve got wild turkeys. Frankly, if you lived on upper as a freshman and never noticed these birds, there’s something wrong with your eyeballs because they are everywhere. Now, me being me, I thought it would be a genius idea to attempt to catch a turkey in the spirit of the holiday. Below details my quest to catch the ever elusive turkey.
I guess the best place to start is by setting the scene. It’s Monday night. The Portico evening session has been cancelled, leaving me yet another entire hour to procrastinate. I’m getting pumped about returning home to see the light of my life, my GMC Acadia, and I think to myself ‘What better way to celebrate the holiday than by catching a turkey and keeping it as a pet for maybe like a day?’. At the time my quest begins, it is approximately 10:45 p.m.
Now, turkeys are stupid, right? At least that’s what the interweb told me at one point, so I begin my journey with the old box propped up by a stick trap. I figure if it worked on me as a 5-year-old it has to work on a turkey, right? After googling what turkeys eat, I discover we have a lot more in common than I thought because we both eat practically everything, so I settle for some stale granola and an unopened box of raisins found in the dorm as bait.
Luckily, as a freshman, I’m aware of where the turkeys are at all times, so I head down to the Reservoir to begin my stake out. By this time it’s 11:00 p.m. There’s no light, and there’s practically no one out except a couple people turning up too hard on a Monday. I figure it’s the perfect time for a good old fashioned turkey hunt.
By 11:15 p.m. I’ve propped my box up via a stick with a piece of string attached. The food’s in place, and I’m hiding creepily behind a tree, hoping no one who passes by notices a random girl by herself near the Res with a cardboard box. It’s pretty darn dark, but I can just make out the shadows of the turkeys as they meander around the field. By my internal clock 15 minutes pass before my victim notices the food.
Slowly, he inches forward, glancing around to make sure there’s no one in sight. Once he regains his confidence he makes his power move and sprints to the box. I give him several seconds of security before pulling away the stick and trapping him under cette box. I have won, or so I think.
This unfortunately causes a scene, and I am quickly surrounded by several other turkeys hungry for vengeance. As it turns out, they are quite loyal to their brethren, and so I am surrounded and pecked numerous times before I have the chance to undo my mistake and free the trapped turkey.
I sprint over to the box and kick it off of my nemesis. He is unharmed, but I continue to be swarmed and pestered by his minions. He glares at me, raising himself to full height before jumping and attacking what some might consider my achilles heel: my stomach. I realize this is a losing battle and begin to make my retreat, but the turkeys will not let me leave so easily. They follow me around part of the Reservoir, and I am forced to hide for several minutes until they disperse back to whence they came.
Weary with defeat, I make my way back to Gonzaga, accepting the fact that my quest for a turkey friend has failed and that I will be very sore tomorrow. Upon entering my dorm room at 1 a.m., I’m asked by my roommate Maya where I’ve been. I lie and tell her I was studying because I am too embarrassed to admit defeat by bird. It turns out turkeys are not as stupid as the internet once claimed them to be, and they have proven to be a most formidable match for the college freshman.
Images courtesy of author
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