Thoughts on the turkey death cult

So, about that pagan turkey circle of death….

In case you missed it, it’s a 24-second video filmed Thursday by a Boston man who came across a band of wild turkeys circling a dead cat. The only way it could have been creepier is if they’d all been wearing black robes with hoods. Stephen King wishes he’d thought of a scene as spooky as this. Helpfully, one YouTube user set it to music from “The Shining.” turkeygoround

As the video ricocheted across the planet, wildlife experts weighed in with theories on what the turkeys were doing. Most agreed on a sort of “cat scan” theory — that the turkeys were carefully assessing a threat.

Anyone who has ever seen a turkey attack will be skeptical of this. More likely is that one turkey started circling, and the others fell into formation and didn’t know how to stop.

There are other YouTube instances of turkey-go-round: this one of turkeys running around a tree; this one, of a female turkey running around a male; and this one, of a solitary turkey circling a headstone at a cemetery.

As much as the internet would like to believe that the circle of doom is a sign of the impending apocalypse, it’s probably just a sign that turkeys, with their acorn-sized brains, aren’t very bright.

Also, it should be noted that human beings, whose brains are significantly bigger, also engage in bizarre circling behavior, like this.nascar

A dirge averted

We come home from church a few weeks ago to find that Atlas had died.

Or so it seemed.

There was, outside of his shell, a limp, still Atlas.  Katherine looked in the aquarium and screamed.

We knew that hermit crabs molted, shedding their exoskeletons occasionally, but this was not a skeleton but a whole hermit crab, intact: antennae, claws, eyes on a stick.

It appeared that Atlas had succumbed to terminal depression. Or that the Pacific seawater that we buy in a box was contaminated.

We should have been ecstatic. We were free, free, FREE from hermit-crab bondage! We no longer had to worry about whether he was eating, whether he was lonely, whether he was suffocating because we hadn’t changed the water frequently enough, whether the cats would notice there was free food for the taking in that strange glass box on the kitchen counter, whether Atlas was still angry and plotting revenge.

Oddly enough, we were crushed. It seemed a personal failing that we couldn’t keep a shrimp of a crab alive for even a year with the finest accouterments that PetCo had to offer. We’d kidnapped him, and then we’d killed him. It was a sad end to a sad life.

Only it wasn’t.

Katherine believed.

Doubting Thomas that I am, I departed the death scene after a few minutes, but like Mary at Lazarus’ tomb, she weepily remained there, looking for any small sign of life. And after about 20 minutes, she shrieked again.

Damned if there wasn’t a hermit crab in that empty shell.

Again.

He had molted. It was the most astonishing thing. Unlike a snake that sheds a skin that is clearly an abandoned outer layer, Atlas shrugged off a second self that was an exact replica of himself. It was as if there were twin Atlases, and one killed the other. They were indistinguishable except that one was dead and one was alive.

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The now joyful Katherine went to Google and learned that, gross as it seems, hermits eat their exoskeletons, so we left the body in the tank for a week. Atlas would have none of it, so one day, I reverently lifted the remains out of the tank with a spatula and buried them in the planter on the deck. Old Atlas will fertilize spring flowers.

New Atlas seemed tired for a few days; miracles take energy when you do them yourself.

But soon he was back to clunking his way around the tank, and like marathoner Ryan Hall, he seems a little beefier these days, a little more capable of withstanding his miserable captivity until we can return him to the waters off Sullivan’s Island.

As we learned from his death and resurrection, that eventual parting won’t be without tears.

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The crabnapper next door

Google “accidentally took crab home from the beach,” and you’ll see we’re not the only ones facing the crabnapper’s dilemma: what to do when the beautiful, empty shell you bring home from the beach is actually occupied and taking the creature back to his home is not an option.

Unfortunately, there are also people who are taking hermit crabs home on purpose. An employee at the local pet store said she’d had two other customers buying stuff for hermit crabs recently, only they’d kidnapped theirs from Cape Cod.  One has already died, she said.

As for our temporary crab, Atlas, he’s still hanging in there, and recently moved to a bigger tank we found on the side of the road. He has sand from the Caribbean, water from the Pacific, and all the mail-order algae he can eat. I have played the Hallelujah Chorus for him. He’s listened to Shakespeare. He’s flown on a plane. It’s like he won the crab lottery. He’s the Ken Bone of crabdom.

He’s still mad as hell about it, waving his tiny claws at us like Achmed the Terrorist.

I contacted the New England Aquarium in hopes that they’d let him join one of their tanks, but the “curator of fishes” (job of the week) said they only have local species because of the possibility that critters from other regions might carry parasites or disease to which New England animals aren’t immune.

A biologist at the South Carolina Aquarium, who clearly has never waded into the ocean in New England, suggested gradually acclimating him to colder water and releasing him locally. This seemed doable, until I read this story about a lobster that was rescued and released, found dead a week later – the likely victim of temperature change.

I’ve been trying to acclimate to New England ocean water for nearly a decade. Ice baths are warmer.

We’ve asked the legendary Kelly’s Roast Beef if Atlas could join one of their saltwater fish tanks. They politely declined. We’ve posted a “lonely crab looking for friend” ad on Craigslist. Nothing.

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So, we’re still looking for a solution that doesn’t result in death or damnation – you know, in case we’ve been wrong about this whole “God made man in His image” thing, and it turns out God’s actually a striped-leg hermit crab, in which case we’re doomed.

Here is Atlas, in his natural shell. crab-020

What do you think? Is he a cool summer or a deep winter? The online color tests aren’t helping much:

Body type: Cockroach

Skin tone: Mottled

Eyes:  Brown, on a stick.

Natural hair color: I keel you for asking.

What fresh shell is this?

Before I begin, this is important:

It is illegal to remove living creatures from a South Carolina beach. I know this. I would never do this knowingly.

I’m the mom who inspects every shell; returns every brown, fuzzy sanddollar to the deep; stands disapprovingly over other people’s children when it looks like they might be about to pocket a hermit crab or poke a stick in a jellyfish. It’s their home, not ours.

So, when Katherine found a beautiful, unusual shell on Sullivan’s Island recently, we inspected it carefully, even smelled it, before taking it from the beach. Nothing. Empty. Abandoned.

And it appeared that way for nearly eight hours, until we were almost back home in Boston and she reached in her backpack to pull a book out, and saw something scurry back into the shell.

If you lived anywhere near Fenway Park and had your windows open at that moment, you could have heard all of us screaming.

What is it with these animals that are always hitching a ride with this family?crab-042

After the screaming stopped, we were crushed with remorse. Not only had we kidnapped this crab from his home and stuffed him in a dark, crowded backpack, but he’d been X-rayed and flown on a plane. (Note to terrorists: You can’t get knives through airport security any more, but pack all the hermit crabs you want.)

This was not a land hermit crab, the kind that scuttle under foot in the sand. This was a marine crab – we have come to learn, a coastal hermit crab, with striped legs and a formal name: Clibanarius vittatus. It was miraculous that it was even still alive at this point. So when we got home, fresh out of seawater and not knowing what else to do, we put it in a pot on top of paper towels dampened with tap water mixed with salt.

Crueler people might have just cooked it.

But those people also wouldn’t move donkeys up and down the East Coast.

So, we immediately vowed – okay, I immediately vowed – that we would get this crab back to his home somehow. Even though it was a thousand miles away, and I had neither the money, time nor will to get him X-rayed by the TSA again. Or spend four days in a car to relocate a crab.

I felt guilty, but not that guilty.

And so.  One trip to the pet store and $100 later, we have a hermit crab staring reproachfully at us from his aquarium next to the kitchen sink. He lives in Pacific sea water that comes in a box (there is no Atlantic sea water for sale at the Milford PetCo, something some entrepreneur should correct right away), and eats krill (tiny shrimp) stored in the freezer. He waves his little claws and tentacles at us; I’d like to think he’s being friendly, but it’s most likely an array of crab obscenities that would shock even Donald Trump.

Since he’s stuck with us for a while, he needed a name. I wanted to call him Crabby Patty (because, actually, we have no idea whether it’s a he or a she), but Katherine chose Atlas because he’s a traveler, and so Atlas he is. And somehow, we are determined to get him back home, although I have to admit that my resolution is weakening a little, since we’re getting attached to the little fellow, as well as his daily fashion shows. His natural shell is gray, but sometimes he likes to strut about in royal blue or neon green.crab-035

Take-your-chicken-to-work day

So, I’m heading down the road to feed the donkeys. (Yes, I live on an 8-acre farm, but the donkeys live 10 minutes away, on another farm, in one of the many perplexities of my current life.)

From the backseat, I hear a rustling.

I keep driving.

On any given day, my vehicle is a stunt-double for the pickup Lamont drove on “Sanford and Son,” so there’s always trash congealing , grass growing through the carpet, or year-old French fries mutating into another life form. This can get noisy sometimes.

In another half mile, I hear movement again

All right. One of the kids decided to come along, and slipped into the backseat without me knowing. I turn around to let them know I’m in on the joke.

There, perched on the back seat, is a chicken.

She sits calmly, expectantly, and looks me boldly in the eye, like Jessica Tandy with feathers.

Hoke, I need to be at the beauty parlor in half an hour!

Hoke, could you please drive a little slower?

Hoke, eat more cattle!

It was take-your-chicken-to-work day, and I didn’t know it. chickpic

I slowed down, and started looking for a place that I could turn around,  drive home and deposit Miss Maizey in the driveway where she belonged.  Then I realized, with great alarm, that a large man in a small car had pulled over next to me.

I rolled down my window.  He smiled benevolently.

“Yes?” I said. “Can I help you?”

“You looked like you were lost and needed directions.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not lost. There’s just a chicken in my back seat.”

And with that, I turned around and took the hen home, more interested in keeping the back seat free of chicken manure than in seeing this kind man’s response.

I realized immediately, of course, what had happened.   Earlier, I had loaded a bale of hay in the back of the Jeep, and left the hatch open for a few minutes.  My passenger, showing extraordinary chutzpah for a chicken, had climbed in.  The back seat of my car is a good place for a chicken. Warm. Plenty of crumbs.

So  Meals on Wheels, the Donkey Edition, hit the road again.  Just another day in the life. No harm, no fowl.