A Tale of Three Turkeys: My Love Affair with Curly, Larry, and Moe

I remember the very day I first saw them—three turkeys, strutting along my neighbor’s yard like they owned it. They moved in perfect formation, side-by-side in a straight line, like a synchronized marching band that had swapped trumpets for tail feathers. These guys weren’t just turkeys; they were feathered clones, attached at the hip and committed to their choreography.

At first, I tried to keep my distance. “Don’t get attached,” I told myself. “Do not give them names. They’re turkeys. You know how this ends.” So, logically, I named them. Curly led with a majestic wobble, every step declaring, “Follow me; I’m the brains of this operation.” Larry was the shifty-eyed one, was clearly plotting something. And Moe? Moe was the wild card, the turkey equivalent of that friend who starts karaoke at a party and somehow ends up on the roof. He had the dawdling charm of a kid lost in a candy store, rediscovering the same jellybean five times.

In a short time, they made their way to our house. Every morning, they greeted us at our front door, always side-by-side like a feathered conga line, doing turkey things: pecking at nothing, puffing up their chests like tiny bodybuilders, and engaging in what can only be described as interpretive dance battles with our dogs through the glass.

Every move they made was hilarious. If one stopped, they all stopped. If one decided to veer left, the others snapped into formation like military cadets. Except for Moe—sweet, slow Moe—who sometimes trailed behind, looking vaguely surprised that the group had moved on without him.

But the best part? The gobbles. They’d waddle up our driveway to greet me every afternoon, and the second I’d utter a sound–any sound–they’d echo in perfect unison—a loud, ridiculous, oddly operatic gobble. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a turkey harmony, a fine comedic, feathered symphony that somehow said, “Is that your natural hair color?”

Then came the fateful day.

I was walking down the driveway when my neighbor flagged me over. He had that look—a mix of pride and dread, “They’re getting big,” he said.

“Yep!” I chirped, trying to ignore the undertones of doom in his voice.

He hesitated. “Thanksgiving’s coming.” And just like that, my heart broke into a million tiny turkey-shaped pieces.

The days leading up to Thanksgiving were brutal. Every time I’d see them hanging around in the yard, I couldn’t help but whisper, “I’m so sorry.” I wanted to protest. To beg for a stay of execution. To start a “Save Curly, Larry, and Moe” petition. But I knew it was futile. I live in farm country. Turkeys aren’t pets here; they’re dinner. And so, the Stooges continued their turkey shenanigans, blissfully unaware of their destiny.

When Thanksgiving came, I honored them the only way I knew how: with an extra helping of mashed potatoes and a toast to the best turkeys I’ve ever known.

“To Curly, the fearless leader with a wobble of wisdom. To Larry, the quiet schemer who probably knew this was coming all along. And to Moe, the wing-flapping, rule-breaking slowpoke who never met a glass door he wouldn’t fight.

Rest in peace, Curly, Larry, and Moe. You were more than turkeys—you were legends. Gobble on, my friends. Gobble on.