Duck, Duck, Goose!
Every spring, Canadian geese nest lakeside by my home. Usually, there are two, sometimes three, adults. Once settled and a few eggs have been laid, the geese diligently provide proper incubation until it’s time for the goslings to hatch. Fuzzy little goslings have arrived.
In the weeks to follow, we respectfully share our neighborhood. We are careful not to jeopardize this process for the geese. By the end of May, even sometimes into mid-June, goslings have grown enough to manage on their own, then poof! Up, up, and away they go. They bid us farewell in the final flight, showing off the perfectly synchronized V-lined formation of their last performance. Silly little gooses, we all know that just like clockwork, next spring, we will meet yet again.
May I have your attention, please? There has been an invasion, and it’s much more than a goose on the loose. I have goosebumps talking about this – these geese are a gang, just a bunch of rotten eggs.
One is clearly in charge; he is the leader and calls all the shots. I refer to him as Big Cheese. Big Cheese honks and hisses while his minions simply follow the leader as if they have been brainwashed by Big Cheese.
Not only has this gang hatched goslings, but the first set are teenagers and should be gone; however, they continue running amuck about my neighborhood. As expected, now there is an entirely new group of goslings.
Enough – it’s July! Big Cheese and his entourage of feather-covered quacks can pack it up.
We have grown adults with brooms frantically shooing these geese off their lawns. Children lunged at while at play. Obstacles our kids have to navigate their bicycles: screaming, “Watch out for the geese.” Road hazards cause our vehicles to lay in wait as they ever so slowly waddle to cross the road. Let’s not discuss what my husband just stepped in at his favorite fishing spot.
My tail feathers are shaken. I am forced to look over my shoulder during my leisurely walks. I now am on high alert for a pecking attack. I’m just a gal simply walking around the lake so I can cross the road to visit my parents’ home. But Big Cheese hisses, and he eyeballs me. I know what he is thinking. It’s like playing a roulette game of Red Rover. Red Rover, Red Rover, we dare Erin over.
Mornings in my driveway seem to be the gathering spot for Big Cheese to take a daily roll call. To go about my daily life, I find myself negotiating with these geese to PLEASE step off my driveways so that I can just do my thing. I’m just trying to get to where I need to be. I’ve explained time and time again that I do not have wings. I cannot fly. Work with me here! Big Cheese won’t have it. Ignored, yet again, and they happily continue following the leader game all day long. What a bunch of quackery!
Rather than going back to their home as scheduled, these puddle pranksters are on an extended stay, running about, shaking their goose feathers, swimming in their straight little lines.
The hospitality has ended. It’s time to reclaim our land. Reclaim and preserve. See, the bitter truth of the matter is that a goose leaves its droppings anywhere and everywhere. The line has been drawn; I declare war. Again, it’s July. It’s time to waddle away and fly high before I start a collection of new goose-down pillows for the entire neighborhood. The warning has been given. These guests have cooked their own gooses this time.
When Big Cheese and Company decide to comply with their eviction notice, I vow to research all their dislikes so next spring, my neighborhood won’t be their designated Club Med for the entire summer.
After all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.