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.