I did not see the raccoon when I lifted the stainless steel tub to fill it with fresh water. I did notice how easily the stainless steel tub held water compared to flexible heavy rubber tub we had been using. Another small detail to make the daily chores easier, I said to myself.

When I placed the tub with fresh water on the floor, a small raccoon curled around the oak boards at the far side of the stall. We looked calmly at each other: he had the distinctive dark circles around his brown eyes and seemed slightly larger than a large cat, dense and well-muscled. He climbed into the space between the inner and outer boards of the stall. I threw the turkey feed in their feeder, threw the extra water into that space and considered what else to do.

Should I let the two remaining gobblers out of their coon-proof stall? They seemed much bigger and more consequential than this small coon. Would they be safe? Could they defend themselves? Better wait, I decided.

In late April, I bought six turkey poults during irrepressible spring fever(they had been on sale) when I bought twelve young chicks. Six weeks ago, we had moved them all into the stall on the near end of the pig pen. Years ago, we had covered every crack in this one stall with hardware cloth to make it predator-proof.

Now we put fencing around the pasture just outside the stall. Every morning, we let the turkeys out into the area. Every evening, we herded them back into the stall and locked them in for the night. Soon two disappeared during the day. Early another evening, I heard an animal struggling to breathe in the brush behind the pasture. The next morning, another turkey hen was missing. We no longer let the turkeys out into the pasture. They stayed inside, alive, but with no direct sunlight, no fresh grass or bugs. Every night I herded them into the coon-proof stall with the square-ended shovel. Sometimes the gobblers hissed at me; often, I heard noises in the far stall of the pigpen; I never went to investigate.

Two days later, a friend saw the tawny rump of a large cat with a small tail at the top of the pond. The cat leaped to pounce on a rabbit: a bobcat, we imagined. I pondered what to do. Three hens had lived for three years in the chicken house close to the farmhouse. Perhaps the bobcat did not like to cross open fields, I reckoned. Yesterday, several of us nailed boards and hardware cloth onto the old goat house in the middle of an open pasture to make the gobblers a new predator-proof home. 

A friend stayed for lunch: “Bobcat or turkey,” he questioned, considering how to kill the bobcat. “Bobcat and turkey, “ I replied: as long as the bobcat stayed in the wild places and the turkeys stayed safe in relatively open space, perhaps I could accommodate both on my farm.

I would not kill a bobcat to protect two turkeys! Perhaps if I had hundreds of sheep or depended on the turkeys for income, I might choose differently. Now I have a raccoon to consider: one small raccoon; two big gobblers. How would the turkeys fare? Was the coon eating the turkey feed or planning to eat a turkey? Are there more and larger coons?

I told my story in church. “Raccoon are sacred animals,” one woman responded. Can we peaceably all live together I wonder? After I did my other chores. I returned to the turkeys. I did not see or hear another animal, so I let them out to roam inside the building another day. On Tuesday, a volunteer and I will move them to their new home—if they are still living.

Life is a gamble; some say; life is a gambol indeed!