A Gangster of Geese

In July, I moved to a house with a big pond in the front yard. All along the same street, there are ponds in people’s yards. Up and down the road, you’ll spot ponds. Next to one of these ponds, you will see a flock of geese standing around, or most likely, relieving themselves on the grass or driveway next to the pond.

When they swim, they’re a gaggle of geese. However, if they’re flying, they’re a skein. Once they’re flying, there are lots of words to describe their formations, like chevron.

It’s interesting to read the descriptive terms for groups of birds. A murder of crows is the most well-known. A murder of geese would be more apt, though, if you’ve ever had to go outside and sweep the bird dung off your driveway. Or, if your dog decided that the droppings looked delicious.

There are all kinds of names for groups of birds: a charm of hummingbirds or goldfinches; a staring of owls; a covey of quail; a chattering of starlings; a party or band of jays; a wedge of swans; a raft of ducks; a host of sparrows; a flight of swallows; an exaltation of larks. A staring of owls is the most apt, I think.

What I want to know is who sat around and came up with all of these slightly mad names for groups of birds? Obviously a terror of retirees … or a palace of drunk/high people.

But, let’s get back to my original topic. I said earlier that there were many ponds in my neighborhood, but if you spotted the geese, they would be in front of one pond. That is because this very large flock of geese is treating the neighborhood like a pub crawl. One day they’ll be at my pond. Then they’ll all decide to walk, en masse, across the busy street — despite the fact that they flew hundreds or thousands of miles to get here — to another pond.

They love stopping traffic. When I hear them honking, I just know the leader has just announced that it’s time to find another person’s property to defecate on, and all of the follower geese are agreeing that that is a wonderful idea, but only if they get to walk to their next destination.

Besides being jerks, geese are mean, too. I got too close to one and it hissed at me. I’ve heard of geese attacking people who’ve annoyed them. They love to intimidate people. If they were human, they’d be gangsters or enforcers. I learned to keep my distance from them, but sometimes it’s hard, and not just because I’m perverse. It’s tempting to try to shoo them off the property. But, once geese have decided that your pond is where they are spending the day, as a flock or a gaggle, you might as well give in and locate your broom for the next day. They will leave piles everywhere. Relieving themselves is like a job for them, and they are very good at their job.

When I lived in Connecticut, we had a town beach that was overrun by geese. It was very tricky walking across the grass in the park to the sand on the beach because the geese had transformed the lawn into their toilet. This year, the town installed blue lights that were designed to keep the geese away. They worked wonderfully. The geese relocated across the park to the softball field.

I looked into geese deterrents for my property. Those blue lights are expensive, but I discovered a cheaper solution: grape Kool-Aid. There is something in grape Kool-Aid that they hate. I’m in a quandary, though. The house I live in belongs to my brother and his wife. If I put grape Kool-Aid around the perimeter of the pond, some of it will be bordering his white driveway. When it rains, the Kool-Aid will stain the driveway purple. I can’t decide whether I should risk my brother’s wrath at the mess in his driveway, though.

I have nowhere else to live … unlike the geese, who will eventually go home to Canada to annoy the nice Canadians.

Photo by Robert Franklin, South Bend Tribune, March 29, 2022

Goodbye, 2023, and Take Your Mice With You

It’s New Year’s Eve 2023 and I’m unraveling. It’s probably due to Covid. If you’ve had it, you know the symptoms. If you haven’t, I’m not going to gross you out on the last day of the year by describing them. I’ll wait until a more appropriate day. Just know that, as I type these words, I am burning up and freezing simultaneously. I also might be hallucinating.

Over the holiday break, when I was healthy, my son and I watched Candy Cane Lane, starring Eddie Murphy. It was a ridiculous, but fun-to-watch movie. I couldn’t begin to describe everything that happened, but I will tell you about the electronic, 12-layered metal tree based on the song, “The 12 Days of Christmas.” Each level had icons corresponding to the day: i.e., a partridge in a pear tree on the first level, two turtledoves on the second level, etc.

Now, here’s where it gets weird. Due to a disgruntled elf, the icons come alive and wreak havoc and can only be stopped if you yank away the gold rings they all possess. Once you grab a ring, the live icon becomes a 2-dimensional icon. They initially fall to the ground, but they eventually make their way back to the electronic tree.

After everything worked out in the end–as, of course, it did–my son and I agreed that it was a fun movie to watch while gorging on all of the Christmas cookies, crackers, cheeses, and candy that I had stockpiled for such an occasion.

My son went home this past Friday morning and, by Friday night, I experienced the first of my Covid symptoms. My well-being only deteriorated from then on. Last night, Saturday night, drugged up on TheraFlu, I began binge-watching The Gilded Age, with my loyal dog, Duke, on the floor next to me.

At about 4 in the morning, I noticed movement under the Christmas tree. As soon as I turned my head, a small black and white mouse ran out from under the tree and into the bedroom next to the living room. Duke didn’t even look up.

I pulled myself up from the couch and went into the bedroom. I looked around for the mouse but he wasn’t visible in the bedroom or in the attached bathroom. The bottom of the bedroom closet contained mounds of winter clothes from the room’s former resident, my brother, who now lives in Florida.

I figured that the mouse was probably somewhere in that mess, so I did what any of you would have done at almost 5 o’clock in the morning. I left the bedroom, closed the door, and stuffed a large gift bag under the door so that the mouse would be trapped. I figured I’d deal with it today (New Year’s Eve) since it’s a generally accepted custom to rid your home of vermin before the New Year rolls in.

The thing is, I only got a quick look at the mouse. I have never seen a black and white mouse before. I started wondering if it was actually a cat.

This afternoon, after waking up and gulping down some more TheraFlu, I decided to see if I had imagined the mouse, or cat. I cautiously went into the bedroom and pulled out all of the clothes and blankets from the bottom of the closet. No mouse, no cat. I looked in every corner of the room. No mouse, no cat. I checked the bathroom, with the same result. By this point, I had decided it was not a cat, because I surely would have detected a cat in the bedroom or bathroom, despite my drugged-up state.

I recently heard someone referring to the First Law of Thermodynamics. At the time, I thought I understood it as meaning mass can change forms but not disappear. It turns out the law is actually about energy, but I decided to go with my interpretation. If mass can’t disappear, then where was the mouse?

Of course, the mouse was probably still in the room, hiding somewhere clever. I, therefore, closed the door again and stuffed the crack at the bottom with the gift bag I had previously used for that purpose. That gift bag is now part of the decor.

Then, I went to the kitchen and poured myself another TheraFlu cocktail. I took it to the living room, to resume binge-watching The Gilded Age. In my opinion, the show was over-acted and a rip-off of Downton Abbey, but it served the purpose of getting me through a long, uncomfortable night.

As I settled myself on the couch, I glanced over at the Christmas tree, mostly to see if the mouse had re-settled himself under it. He wasn’t visible, but what blew my mind was what was visible. I had never gotten around to hanging ornaments on the tree this year–it had lights and pine cones, that was enough–so I know my eyes popped out of my head when I spotted a single pewter ornament hanging from the lowest branch of the tree. The ornament was a mouse.

Did I, at some point during the long night, grab a ring from the black and white mouse? Did it turn back into an ornament?

I had a decision to make. I could quit taking the TheraFlu and endure awful Covid symptoms, or I could keep taking it and resign myself to living in a fantasy world until I was completely cured.

That was an easy decision. Bottoms up and Happy 2024!

Beautiful, Brutal Nature

There’s a pond in front of the house I live in. Surrounding the pond are bushes, scrub, spindly trees, and grasses. When the bushes and trees bloom, there is privacy for geese to lay eggs and rabbits to lay bunnies. You can’t see the nests; they’re well-hidden.

My dog, Duke, knows they’re there, though. Several weeks ago, he pulled hard on his leash and dashed into the brush and ran down to the pond. I pulled him out, but it was too late. He immediately sat down on the grass. He then opened his mouth and slowly, slowly, a giant goose egg emerged. He dropped it on the grass and batted it around with his paws.

When Duke is eating or playing with something, it is unwise to try to take it from him. Instinctively, he will bite you. Hard. I know I should have had this trait trained out of him. I bought a shock collar to discourage his bad behavior. It’s still in the box. I can’t bring myself to inflict pain on him (I’m aware of the irony), so I just don’t take anything away from him. And I tell others not to, either.

But, back to the goose egg: Somehow, I was able to distract him and while he was looking away from the egg, I grabbed it and headed into the thicket. I located the nest, which appeared to have been constructed primarily out of dryer lint, quite easily since the two geese in the pond were nearby, screeching their heads off. I quickly placed the egg back into the nest and got out of there.

After that, the mother never left her nest. She sat there all day, every day, protecting her young. She must have left the nest at some point, but only when she was certain that Duke was not around. The eggs hatched last night or this morning, because I saw the eggs yesterday afternoon in the nest, and today I saw the mother and father geese swimming with their little goslings in the pond. I was happy they survived.

The same couldn’t be said for a nest of newly born baby bunnies, however.

Yesterday, on our walk around the pond, Duke pulled especially hard on his leash and dragged me back into the brush, a little further down from the goose nest. I pulled and pulled and finally got him out of the brush. As he emerged, I saw numerous tiny little newborn rabbits scramble away from him, racing in all directions across the lawn. He raced after them, pulling me with him. He scooped up two or three in his mouth and would not release them. I screamed and yelled and demanded that he drop them, to no avail. His jaw was clenched tightly. Little limbs hung from his mouth. Horrified doesn’t even come close to describing how I felt. There was nothing I could do as he swallowed them whole.

I was afraid of him for a while. This is the same dog I hug and snuggle with. He’s a 140-pound gentle giant … when he isn’t biting off your hand or eating live animals. It’s hard to reconcile his two natures.

My niece, who was visiting, asked how he could behave in such a vicious way. She noticed that he looked quite happy and normal right after eating the rabbits. I told her that it’s instinctive to him to capture prey.

“But, he’s a house dog!” she responded. Yes, he’s a house dog. But he’s also descended from wolves.

I’ll have to keep that in mind on our next walk around the pond.