Just recently, we almost had a young spring turkey for dinner. Looking through my office window, I saw a hen turkey walk out of the woods and into our yard. A second later, a good-size poult popped out, following its mother. Soon a long train of young turkeys was filing out of the woods until the last, trailing a little behind, came slinking into view. Even without my glasses I could tell that there was something wrong with this one; it was much shorter and darker than the others and seemed to be crouching very close to the ground. Finally, when I put my glasses on, I found that the last poult was not a poult at all but my black cat, Beaker, bringing up the rear as the procession zigzagged across the yard.