Croutons

My Dad feeds the wild turkeys. They wait for him at the top of the hill. "Tonight I was late," he told me. "They left." I could see him kicking dirt on the other end of the phone.

Last year on his birthday he was feeding a pair of crows. "They know what time I get to the ranch and when I go home they are already waiting for me to eat the crumbs out of the back of the truck."

Before the crows there was a wild dove.

Dad has a deal with the local bakery. They put their leftover bread in a container by the back door a couple of times a week. He picks it up. "I feed it to the critters," he tells me.

Dad has chickens, geese, a few cows. He used to have a goat and a big old red cat. They all eat bread. Any wild animal within a twenty mile radius has likely ate old bread at Grandma's ranch.

Grandpa did the same thing but the bakery was in town and he'd pick up their old bread on Saturday mornings. Grandma would soak it and feed it to the dogs.

Being the third generation, I buy fresh bread at the farmers' market, cut it into cubes and bake them slowly with olive oil and herbs until they are crunchy like they are old. And then I eat them all before anyone else has a chance.