Sometimes being a jerk on the homestead will land you in hot water. Literally. 

Meet Tom. I think he's the only animal ever having been on the homestead that didn't get a real name. He was just referred to by what male turkeys are called. 

We got Tom and his three sisters when they were still chicks about six or eight weeks old. We only knew he was male because he had spur nubs above his ankles. 

It became evident fairly early that he was going to be a jerk. 

Any time we went to feed the chickens, he would have to be fended off with a garbage can lid to keep him out of the can where we kept the feed. Any time an adult walked out, he would puff up, drag his wing tips and drum to let us know that this was his barnyard. He was insatiably curious and always under foot. 

One day, though, he crossed a line from which he could not recover. He jumped on our granddaughter, Bug. She was two. 

He was immediately sequestered in the chicken run until the weekend at which point his head was separated from his body. 

He was made into a gumbo. He was tasty. 

What happened to the sisters? One disappeared soon after we got them. One was mauled by a dog and was put down. I'm not sure what happened to the third. She may have decided to return to the wild.