After living with Doug, I never ate turkey again. Didn’t eat Doug either (someone did though — keep reading). We were given Doug as a baby chick one spring with the intention he would be Thanksgiving dinner. He had an elevated pen intended to keep him safe from bears, mountain lions and other predators, but it was the free-range cattle that ran up the road to spend summer grazing in the mountains who demolished his cage. Knocked it over as they raced ahead of dogs and cowgirls on horses herding the cattle upslope. Doug was distraught; his home lost to a stampede. Still a youngster, he sought comfort and protection by perching in the apple tree’s low branches just above the dog house where Chac and Bruja, my two Rottweilers, preferred hanging out. By mid-summer Chac, Bruja and Doug were a pack and defended my home against UPS invasion and joined me on hikes in the forest. The UPS guy was fine with the Rottweilers, but Doug kept him at bay. The delivery man refused to get out of his truck. Doug was one fierce Turk-weiler.
In autumn, work took me to Angeles National Forest where we’d camp at my field sites. We drove the truck there, along with Doug, Chac and Bruja riding in the open bed with our work gear. Roaring down I-5 from northern California to LA, we stopped at rest areas for the dogs and, at each stop, out jumped the dogs and Doug. They’d follow us to the official dog walk area and then run back when called, jump into the truck bed, and lean into the wind as we continued down I-5, through the Grapevine, and into the San Gabriel Mountains.
Our first campsite was at an official campground with picnic tables, piped water, and a busload of urban Boy Scouts collecting mistletoe to sell as a Christmas fund-raiser. As we set up camp the pack moved through the pines smelling what the wild ones had left behind. When they wandered out of sight, I called them back. The dogs ran to me, but not Doug. Where’s Doug? Worried, I quickly traced their path through the campground calling Doug and, as I came around a dense clump of trees, several uniformed Boy Scouts shushed me intently and pointed. “We’re tracking that eagle!” one boy whispered excitedly. I followed his finger and — yep, there was Doug trotting ahead of the Boy Scout troop. I figured Boy Scouts didn’t need me to laugh at them but did need to know the difference between eagles and turkeys. I called Doug and we sat together as I explained, using Doug as a visual reference.
Once we left official campgrounds, Doug was more relaxed and the pack followed me as I collected data from my study plants. They knew my pace: walk briskly, stop, crouch, dump my backpack next me (a sign we’d be here awhile and they could inspect the area). Then when I zipped my equipment back in the pack, the sound of the zipper called them to walk with me to the next study area. After a week, it was time to hit up La Cañada for more groceries. The pack jumped into the truck bed and off we went down the mountains. A multi-lane urban street lined with retail stores extends along the base of the mountains on the LA side. My truck with its mixed species pack created serious traffic jams and photo opportunities for the not-so-jaded urbanites. Cars stopped for people to look and point at Doug, who perched on the side of the truck bed when we stopped. Doug visits La Cañada and is the Talk of the Town. Chac and Bruja garnered some attention (huge lovely dogs), but their packmate Doug was a sight never before seen on the streets in the LA area, at least not riding in the back of a pick-up truck.
One month later, it was time to travel back up I-5, into the Sierras and home just in time for Thanksgiving. I’d been wobbling in and out of vegetarianism for years; my daughter was a congenital vegetarian who refused all meat beginning with the first trial at 9 months old. Doug was the final persuasion to motivate me to not eat my friends. Doug was family. If one turkey could be family, why not all turkeys? What is the difference between Doug and that Butterball in the grocery store, except that Doug had an interesting life and traveled to LA?
So Thanksgiving that year and ever since has not included meat. The smell of turkey baking is enticing when I walk into friends’ home for the holiday but if I put a piece to my lips it tastes like Doug and his joie de vivre with the Rottweiler pack, truck rides camping in Angeles, and the acclaim of La Cañada.
I’m glad Doug had such a good life, because it was sadly too short. A week after Thanksgiving, I heard a noise in the night. A woman screaming, which meant a mountain lion calling. The dogs began barking wildly, their voices diminishing as they ran away from the house. I grabbed a flashlight and hustled out the door to see an empty space above the doghouse where Doug usually perched for his night’s sleep. No dogs either. I scouted around the meadow between me and the lake where I could hear the dogs still barking somewhere in the forest but no one came when I called. Later that night the dogs arrived home alone.
The next day I went out hunting for Doug. Heedless of the cold water, I splashed through the creek calling for him and inspecting the dense bushes and trees along the banks. In a clearing, I found what remained of Doug: a pile of feathers beneath a large cedar. But, it was some comfort to know that Doug died as he lived, a free and natural bird, despite his fondness for truck rides and friendship with dogs. And now all that remains of Doug is in the photo above. That’s really Doug in the photo — the only one left — it honors his guard duty repelling UPS invaders.