I’ve heard it said that turkeys are incapable of deductive reasoning, that they lack superior understanding — in unvarnished vernacular, that they are dumb as dirt clods. 

After weeks of keen observation, given that I am in summer hibernation with ample time for such tom-foolery, I beg to differ. 

There are three hens with three chicks in tow who have chosen to vacation at my place. When once I would have labeled them common freeloaders, I now see them as part of the family, and so do the cats. Oh, I saw Cricket eyeing the young ones and calculating the size ratio and probability of taking one down, but the hovering hens are formidable in their Jurassic aspect, and Cricket is a feline of perspicacity who is well-fed. No need for him to chance making a fool of himself and getting a peck on the bean for his trouble. These seasonal sojourners enjoy lounging on the lawn between having a good scratching-up in the leaf piles. 

These once-vagrant birds congenially share the wealth with the deer population. What I need now are a few good tick-eating possums and a pressure washer. The unfortunate aspect of the friendly striders-about is that two of the hens are limping, one pretty badly, and yet she seems to carry on with a stiff upper … lip. My guess is they were a bit too slow in answering why the turkey crossed the road. 

Martin the maintenance man told me that his mother has a resident herd of about 50 gobblers gate-crashing at her place. That many would make a minefield of a mess. If I were her, I would offer them corn dogs all around in exchange for immediate departure. He also informed me that they weren’t good eating, for which I will take his word. A hungry coyote might disagree. 

Another bit of greater nuisance that gets a bad rap with regard to cranial acumen is the common house fly. They may be common, and a quick gander at my back porch during a hot afternoon will give you an idea of just how common, but you can’t count them out smarts-wise. 

The cats and I crack the screen no wider than absolutely necessary to squeeze through unaccompanied, but there’s always one. That over-achiever of the Musca domestica clan makes his way in riding on a bag of chips, rubs his hands together in triumph, and sets up housekeeping knowing he has put something over on us.

Such a one has been bedeviling me as I make steady progress on my book. They don’t call Beelzebub Lord of the Flies for nothing. It seems to know just when I’ve got up a good head of steam and I’m typing away like mad, creating genius paragraphs of renown, to make his infernal buzzing entrance. 

I try ignoring the Sopwith Camel drone as it makes diving and circling passes around my work station. Finally, though, it’s drawn me in. I put aside the tool of my trade, fold the Via magazine in two lengthwise, and go on the attack. Silence. Don’t tell me they don’t know how to use their five eyes to their advantage.

It has taught me that my reflexes are not as swift to the swat as in the good old days. If only Aunt Georgia were here. No fly stood a chance once it crossed her threshold. 

If you’ve read this far, your eyes are probably all worn out from rolling and you’re anticipating a point. Bless you. 

I warned everyone a couple weeks back that extreme heat brings out the hibernator in me. When one never leaves home, turkeys and flies become bigger than life; they wield enough gravitas to become the focus of an entire column.

OK, if you must have one — the point is: Never underestimate the enemy. 

My excuse for the glut of absurdity is that I’ve been watching one of my favorite ‘90s British sitcoms recently and I’m afraid it has smitten me to bizarre effect. It’s “Jeeves and Wooster,” based on the genius comedic writing of P. G. Wodehouse. Hilarious is an understatement, but an overstatement here.

Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author/fly nemesis. Reach her at peggydover@gmail.com.