Turf War

It was a turf war of sorts, but subtle.  Stepping out on the deck, I caught sight of a doe grazing in the big orchard.  Like the goats, deer seem to have a fondness for dry leaves.  I think they liken them to potato chips as they crunch away.  The seven Mafia Boys who had been lounging in the shade of the shed evidently saw the deer at the same time.  The deer was several feet away from the feeding station and had not yet discovered whatever grain was left over from breakfast.  The turkeys were not going to take any chances.  All seven got up and slowly, and I mean slowly, walked past the deer and took up their positions under the oak.  Not realizing she'd been effectively blocked from the real goodies, the deer went on eating dry leaves.

Ralph claims any new territory as his very own turf.  If he had his druthers, he'd like a supply of flags to plant, proclaiming Ralphland.  I rarely use the dryer in summer, but ran out of clean socks and had no time to wait.  Ralph was mightily disappointed as I removed all the accessories from his new quarters, and even more upset when I hauled him out, too.

Why I think of this place as mine, I don't know.  Obviously, I'm a squatter here, living on everyone else's turf.  I appreciate their tolerance.