Not that kind, silly. This kind:
He (or perhaps she) was wandering around our yard yesterday. We saw him three times, but every time I ran for the camera he got away just in time. We only managed a fuzzy, far away picture with Matt’s camera phone.
We’ve joked about wildlife since we moved into this house, since the realtor that was selling got a little… carried away with the description that she posted online. Obviously, we liked the house, but we got some good laughs over this realtor’s exagerations, especially the part about the ‘abundance of wildlife that will make you feel like you reside in an exotic wonderland’. Um, ok, exotic wonderland? Really? I was pretty sure that we were looking at houses in a suburb of Boston, but whatever you say.
So, every time we’ve seen a deer, or a raccoon, or the one time that I saw the coyote, we’ve joked extensively about the wildlife in our exotic wonderland. Of course, we were feeling pretty sarcastic since deer, while a bit unexpected given that we don’t live in a rural area, are not exactly exotic. Yesterday, though, we were feeling exotic. We had a wild turkey. We would name him Tom. He was eating the bird seed that the squirrels had knocked out of the feeder, because – HA! – HE’S A BIRD!
An exotic bird.
It was only about an hour after our conversation about how cool it was that we had a wild turkey running around, and wondering where he lived, and whether he got cold in the winter, and musing after the fact that we just couldn’t believe that a creature like that was running around New England, and we were feeling kind of bad for eating his friends and relatives every year on Thanksgiving, and using the word ‘exotic’ about ninety million times, that we suddenly turned to look at each other:
“Oh man, we’re such idiots.”
“I know. You’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking, right?”
“Probably. But, he just SEEMED exotic, you know?”
“I thought so too, but, I mean, DUH. PILGRIMS.”
“Poor Tom. I guess he’s not so exotic after all.”