I grew up on a farm. We had rolling hills, barns, fields of amber grain, and critters galore. The whole che-bang. It’s one thing that’s always set me apart from the majority of my friends. Instead of having memories of hanging with the neighborhood kids, I have memories of sheep, cows, tiny baby kittens and freshly hatched ducks.
Most of the time, I enjoyed living on a farm. There were always adventures to be had and animals to play with. All in all, it was pretty neat.
But when you spend more time with animals than with people you start to get to know animals. I can tell you that ducks are kinder than chickens. Horses are big and beautiful and intelligent and wonderful. Sheep smell delicious. Chickens will eat other chickens when they get bored. And geese are 100% evil.
I, like most people, enjoy watching those Canadian geese fly south each fall, but farm geese – alleged domesticated geese – are assholes. All of them. Mother Goose be damned.
See, on the farm we had these three geese. I’m not sure why. Someone must have thought it was a good idea and at some point and I’m sure those little bastards were cute and fuzzy and adorable but eventually they grew up.
These three geese, being geese and thus hateful and rude, thought it would be a good idea to hiss at and attack anything that came within a 100 foot radius of their man-eating, fear-inducing gang of hooligans. See, geese are pack animals, much like flesh-eating piranhas and these three asshole geese were free-range and had the freedom to wander around and harass whoever they wanted. On the top of their list of favorite people to harass, 9-year-old me. I would be wandering around the farm, doing whatever it is that 9-year-olds on farms do, and then…the geese would appear. They would hiss at me. Honk at me. Stick their ugly little necks out at me. And chase me. Being smarter than the average bear, I would run away, oftentimes screaming. Otherwise, they would have killed me.
So I learned to hate geese. The time I was not spending being chased into the house, was time that I spent living in fear of the goose mafia.
Then one day, Dumb Goose #1 picked a fight. With a wolf-dog named Ite. DG #1 stuck out it’s little neck and hissed and spat and honked at Ite until Ite, being a smart, no-nonsense sort of dog, stuck his head through the fence and latched on to DG#1’s neck as it’s other goose friends fled the scene. I’m sure someone was pissed about this turn of events, but it was one of the best days of my life. My dog, my wonderful, wolfy dog, had killed that fucking goose.
The next night, we had goose for dinner. It was delicious.