No one tells you about the turkey shit. Sure, they wax on and on about how “you have to fix everything that breaks. There’s no landlord.” You know, in case during the process of house hunting I forgot how the ownership of property works.
Yet none of the housesplainers talked about how wild turkeys will break into your backyard, eat your pears, and shit all over the damn place.
The eight assholes (aka turkeys) that would make the trek onto my property on a daily basis only seemed to empty their bowls onto the patio. Not in the dirt, not in the weird colored rocks the former owner saw fit to spread around or near the damn tree where the pears were located. No, they would leave their droppings on the bricks in my backyard.
Plop. Plop. Plop. “Ok guys, let’s head to the next house.” This is actual turkey dialogue. I assume. Those shit machines are talkative. I hear their gobble, gobble, gobble from inside and when I confront their little garden party, they run off grumbling like teenager skaters forced to leave a high school with sweet grindable curbs.
“Stop shitting here!” I yell at them. They’ll be back later to dine on, digest, then shit my pears onto my patio.
Finally, the pear tree has been picked clean. The turkeys are around. I see them wandering the streets and congregating in other yards. They don’t care about my yard anymore. They’re the fowl mob. They got what they wanted and now they’ve moved on to some other soul’s house to eat and shit. That is until another pear season is upon us. Then they’ll be back to wet their beaks and drop their loads.
No one told me about the turkey shit. But I’m here telling you now. Beware those winged fuckers and their brick-staining defecations when you buy a house.
Also, when shit breaks, you’re gonna have to fix it yourself.