Zack and the Turkey Attack! One TURKEY TROUBLE
Zack climbed out of the pickup truck, his heart beating fast. He was wearing the Denver Broncos T-shirt he’d got for his ninth birthday, but this morning it didn’t help. He wondered if he should make a run for it. Somewhere, the turkey was waiting.

Maybe it was the noise of the truck.

Maybe it was the little tap of the horn.

Or perhaps it was just pure meanness that made the old tom turkey chase Zack and peck at his legs each time he came to his grandparents’ farm.

“Hi, Mom!” his dad called as Grandma came out on the back porch.

Zack looked quickly around and took a step forward. Then another.

Suddenly, from behind an azalea bush, a huge turkey came charging across the yard, wings flapping, feathers flying. It lowered its head, loud gobbling noises coming from its throat. And as Zack ran, he felt a nip on his calf, then another—a tug on his jeans.

“Oww! Get away!” Zack yelled, but the turkey kept coming, kept pecking, until Zack reached the steps of the farmhouse and Dad swooped his arms at the bird, driving him back into the clearing.

“That Old Tom!” Grandma said. “He thinks he owns the place.”

Old Tailpipe—that was Zack’s name for him, because he was always right behind you and made as much noise as a tailpipe without a muffler.

“Better bring a squirt bottle next time, Zack,” Dad said, laughing. “Get that turkey right between the eyes.”

Inside the kitchen, Zack sat down on a chair and rubbed his leg. It wasn’t funny.

“That old gobbler get you again?” asked Grandpa, looking up from his breakfast. “If the hens wouldn’t miss him, I’d roast him up for Sunday dinner. Gets meaner every year.”

“Now that our Trixie is gone, Old Tom thinks he’s a watchdog,” said Grandma, motioning for Zack’s dad to sit, then passing a platter of eggs and sausage around the table, followed by a stack of apple pancakes. “He can’t bark, so he chases after everyone who comes to the farm.”

The grown-ups treated it as though it was just a part of farm life. No big deal.

“He doesn’t peck at you or Grandpa,” said Zack. “He doesn’t peck Dad.”

“And he’d better not, or he’s turkey soup,” said Grandpa, with a wink. “No, he just goes after small fry. Must think you’re another gobbler, come to take his place. You’ve got to show Old Tom who’s boss, that’s all.”

Easy for you to say, Zack thought as he stabbed his fork into one of the fat sausages, then smeared a thick pat of butter over his pancakes. Grandpa was a lot taller than he was and twice as round.

Zack’s family used to live in the city, but a few months ago they had moved closer to Grandma and Grandpa to help out on the farm. Gramps had given Dad the used pickup truck to run errands for him—to buy sacks of feed for the hens and trays of new baby chicks in the spring. Every weekend, when Zack and Dad drove over, the visit began with a good dinner, if it was Friday and they stayed overnight, or a big breakfast, if they came on Saturday.

Zack liked his grandma’s cooking, and he especially liked all the mechanical outdoors stuff—the milking machine, the tractor, the hay baler, and the ride over in the pickup. But Tailpipe was always there to meet them and went after Zack first thing.

“I don’t see why you’re afraid of an old turkey,” his friend Matthew had said just the week before, when Zack told him about it. “It’s only a big bird.”

“You’ve never seen this turkey!” said Zack. “He’s a monster, and his beak is as sharp as a nut pick!”

“Then what you need,” Matthew had said, “is to turn around and chase him for a change.”

Yeah, right, Zack thought now as he cut his sausage into little pieces and dipped each one in syrup. It was simple talking about what you’d do to old Tailpipe until he was right behind you, peck, peck, pecking at your legs, your clothes, your butt. And today, Zack was going to stay as far from that turkey as he could get.