Did the White Gander and his dames take back the pond from the Dastardly Pair from up north with their 5 new offspring OR is the swimming hole still off limits to Pilgrims and full steam ahead for Canooks?
FLASH! Newborns on Goose Island. The claim that the Canadians have hatched quintuplets has been corroborated by a sighting of the 2 adults and 5 shrimpy little fur balls on the banks of the pond at approximately 11:57 am Eastern Daylight Savings Time. “These Canadians like to get their young out on the water pronto,” I’m quoting myself here. “If they could figure out a way to float those eggs and hatch their young right into the drink, they’d be happy.”
Enough of the Sam Spade/Walter Winchell imitation.
Richard and I have been wondering whether the animosity between our geese and the Canadians would be eased once the eggs hatched. Today was the testing ground.
But first, a precursor.
Yesterday morning, Richard decided to bring our baby gosling out into the front yard to play in the grass and being the imp that I can be I decided to “stir up a little trouble” and see what would happen if I brought the babies around back where our brood was resting in the shade of the back porch. Faster than Richard could say “Are you happy now?” I got my answer because at the first sighting of the babes, Shmuel and the girls rose as one and began coming toward me at a good waddling clip, eyes glazed, babbling some goose incantation. Richard, smiling and a little glaze-eyed himself, wanted me to put the babies down on the grass. “Not on your life,” I spat out, clutching them to my breast and running away from the hellhounds like Eliza on the ice. “It must be instinct,” Richard yelled out in between laughs, running after me to the front yard. We put the babes back in their box and stole them inside, while Shmuel and the girls kept circling the house in search of them, calling out. Who knows whether they were saying “Come here, babies!” or “Kill them! KILL THEM!!” Either scenario would’ve been plausible. It took them about 15 minutes to calm down.
Okay, background information over, smash cut to today. Seeing the Canadians out on the pond with their babies piqued our brood’s interest. Shmuel was transfixed, standing, staring over across the road, as if on point. So again I thought I’d stir things up and headed over to the pond with my cup of afternoon coffee, hoping our group would follow. And they did, curious, wanting to inspect. On their way over they were harassed by a male red winged blackbird who hangs around on the power line, literally watching over a nest of his and his mate’s in the tall ferns near the edge of the pond. “Will our geese never get a break?” I thought as this little flying pipsqueak (And I like Redwing Blackbirds! Ask anyone at the Audobon Society!) darted and jabbed and tried his best to hiss, which sounded like a flea exhaling loudly. He gave it a good shot.
So we’re at the shore, all 5 of us, me and my geese, but they’re a gun shy, having been chased off the pond repeatedly and violently by the Canada Geese and they’ve spotted them across the way on the far side of the pond on the shoreline with their young. I walk to the end of the pier to nudge our gang into the water. It does the trick, with Shmuel leading they all walk into the water. No swimming, though, they just stick to shore, digging around underwater with their bills. Nothing wrong with that, but I know they’re cowed, they can’t hide it. So I decide to take the kayak out. A few days prior Richard and I had done the same thing to encourage them and they’d stuck close, braving the waves, as if the kayak were a big brother to help with the bullies. (Of course, when we pulled the kayak out and left, the Canadians attacked them again. But I digress.)
I paddle toward the other side of the pond and turn back to see that Shmuel and the girls are following behind in sure steady strokes of their feet. The Canadians head their young to tall grass; I can’t see the babies anymore, just the curve of the adult heads, like periscopes. So I stop, giving them their space. But Shmuel keeps going! As do the girls. They walk up on land. They start challenging the Canooks. “Come on, Shmuel! Let’s go!” I say, but though a part of me is chickening out for our geese’s sake, I love the build up of drama, I wonder what’s going to happen next. The Canada male has been shivering his back feathers in warming and Shmuel and the girls all answer back with shivers of their own and continue to move steadily in on them. The Canada pair’s heads look like serpents now. They begin bobbing up and down, hissing like cobras. And then the male attacks! He goes after Daphne who flies into the middle of the pond, then veers back towards me, begging for help. It does the trick. Daphne flies to shore behind me and the male Canook veers off to the left and rejoins his family. Shmuel and the other girls are still crying out and join Daphne on shore.
Now wait – I’ve left out a bit chronologically. Before the showdown – the FIRST showdown, that is – I paddled over to goose island to have a look see, see if I could spot any shell pieces etc., relics of the birth. I rounded the island and could see down feathers in profusion, whitening the straw, as if someone had just had a pillow fight. There was a piece of an egg, I thought, and as I came around the back of the island, I saw movement in the nest. There was another gosling in there! Covered with flies, a little loopy, heavy headed, but there was another gosling! Was he injured? Was he too weak to take the pond? And there was another egg beside it. That makes 7 potential offspring. But why had they left this one back on the island?
Back to the present. I paddle away, urging Shmuel to do the same. Well, swim away. I can see the Canada geese are leading their young across a far log into the brush in the swamp area, choosing, I suppose, to hide their young from the threat of both our Pilgrims and this big orange floating creature with paddles. Shmuel starts to swim away, but wait, he’s not headed for the pier and home, no. They’re headed for Goose Island and the nest and the baby. “C’mon Shmuel! C’mon!” No good. Drama, drama. What’s going to happen? No sign of the Canadians. Shmuel is at the island. Shmuel is walking onto the island! Now the girls!! What’re they gonna do to the baby? Kill it? What about the egg? Will they try to eat it? I can hear shivers of tail feathers and quiet hissing and goose conversation. “C’mon guys!” Are they just going to stay there and wait for the Canadians to return? Oh, this is good! And I’m wondering if the father protector is kicking in in Shmuel? There’s an abandoned young one, has he taken it on as his issue? Is this instinct now? I wait alongside the island for maybe 10 minutes. I paddle over to where I last saw the Canadians. There’s a little stirring of brush, but no sound. They’re laying low. And wait … wait … Shmuel’s in the water, ladies and gentlemen!! He’s leaving the island!! The girls are following. They seem calm, resolute, like they’ve done a good deed. They’ve fought the good fight. I pull up alongside the pier, hop out, quickly drag the kayak out to make room for them and one by one they climb up out of the pond like returning champions. One by one they flap their wings to the silent acclaim. Heroes. Is the pond theirs again? Who knows? I run over to write this as they primp and prune their feathers in preparation for the laying on of the laurel wreath ceremony.
BUT WAIT AGAIN!! As I began the above paragraph, the Canadians came out of the brush with their young, swam to their island, and disappeared. Our guys stood up and took to the water themselves and swam directly to the island. What was going to happen now?! Were they going to go ashore?! A fight for custody? A fight to the finish? They murmured something in goose to the Canadians. Then Shmuel gave a defiant cry “What’s going on in there?!” I saw movement. The Canadian male took to the water. And he came after everyone – Daphne first, of course – then Felicity. Shmuel and he faced off. Lots of squawky cacophony. Daphne submerged and surfaced crying out, paddling madly for shore. Shmuel cried out “Regroup! Regroup!” And it was over. The Canada guy splashed off as if he were washing off after a successful fight, a gladiator duel. And the Pilgrims came out, still proud, wings fluttering. To add insult to injury, though, the little blackbird came down to add his 2 cents of harassment. They batted at him with their wings, open billed, as if he were some infuriating insect.
Now our 4 are gathered in the shade at the side of the pond. The Canadians stay behind the protection of the dogwood bush in bloom on their island. It’s nearing 7. Every once in a while Shmuel lets loose with a trumpet call. “We’re still here!” it announces to the surrounding forest and pond. It never lets up here near Goose Island. Thrills and spills a plenty. I for one am proud of our geese. They conducted themselves handsomely. What will happen tomorrow? Stay tuned.
BUT WAIT AGAIN, AGAIN. PS!! When I pulled the binocs out to watch the young take to the island, I could’ve sworn I saw SIX offspring. SIX in the water, ONE and an EGG in the nest. THAT’S EIGHT GEESE, TEN COUNTING THE ADULTS, FOURTEEN COUNTING OURS, AND SIXTEEN INCLUDING THE GOSLING IN THE ATTACK!! YOWZA!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Mutiny!
It was touch and go there, let me tell you.
I went down to Ron and Tabitha’s pond last evening around 6 to gather the geese and bring them home, a not uncommon chore. Ever since the Canada geese took possession of our pond across the road and given chase whenever our group gets near, Shmuel and the girls have daily taken an afternoon trek down the road a quarter mile, waddled through Ron’s pasture, and then down the meadowed hill to a clearing and the pond. Last night I’d finished all my chores and needed to get a move on to be able to catch a 7:00 film down in White River Junction, 37 miles away. If I was lucky, I’d look out my window and the geese would already have arrived, as they had the day before at this time. I looked, no such luck today. I will not rush, I told myself. It was a marvelous day, bold blue sky, clear, in the 70’s, dropping a bit. I crunched down our gravel road in shorts, braving the flies without Skin So Soft slathered on. And they left me alone, whataya know. It was the perfect time of day.
So down the road, past Ron’s house – I could make out his silhouette in his kitchen, sitting, listening to jazz, his doors open in front and back to cool the house. His lawn was freshly mowed and he’d cut a path all the way down the hill. For the geese, I thought. And at the bottom of the hill, at the far end of the pond, in shade, there they sat, the great white goose and his harem. They must’ve seen me coming, but they didn’t move, I came on slow. I began to favor the pond’s edge, getting in between them and the water, just in case they Dunkirked out away from me. And may I just say, I was gathering them not just because of a movie date, but a fox had been sighted in the area last night by our neighbors, Royce and Andy. They stopped by to tell us. And I didn’t trust that our geese would be safe coming home and putting themselves up on their own leaving their gate open and inviting.
I was nearly on them now and they began to stir, a slight complaint, sounding like kids being asked to come in from summer play after the sun’s gone down. They stood with a ruffle and Shmuel gave his familiar “I’m the man, so back off” shiver. That ritual over, we began the trek back home, slow and steady, me following and shepherding them forward, no fuss, no muss.
And then they stopped.
They just stopped.
They wouldn’t move.
I urged them on, waving my arms forward, this usually did the trick. No go. They stood their ground. And with every “Please” or “C’mon guys” they jabbered back, like their own mini-version of a town villager rabble or an old fashioned strike at the plant. Shmuel seemed to want to move, but the girls stood their ground, they were not going anywhere. Mary Ann seemed to be the main instigator, her tough, bass monotone gave a murmuring foundation to the mutiny. “Don’t give in, girls. He’s got nuthin’. Look, he’s sweatin’. He’s got no power. We’ve got him.”
So I surrendered. I gave in. I threw in the towel. And, satisfied, they all did a fluff and fold on their feathers. Now I do love watching that, this nibbling spruce up they do all over their bodies with clackering bills, necks craning like contortionists at a Cirque de Soleil summer retreat. A thorough going over, the works. And it was beautiful by the stream’s edge, the perfect time of day, green, calm, quiet. “Turn it into a meditation” I told myself. Okay, okay. And I thought – “So what next? What do I do now?” Very meditative, very turning it over.
And then they started moving. For no reason at all. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.” But at the bottom of the hill, they stopped again. This was different then the revolt. They seemed wary to be near the woods and the mown path I was guiding them towards edged right alongside it. I looked into the overgrowth wondering if there might be something in there. The fox? So I gave in again. I let go my insistence on the path and they immediately veered, no, scampered into the taller grass in the open field. And they took the at a good steady, athletic clip. I expected a chorus of “Val-de-ree, Val-de-rah!!” They are like hearty Canadians or Europeans. Not in great shape in a cosmetic American fashion; they’re of a heartier, peasant stock. There’s still an elegance in them, especially in Mary Ann, a touch of regal standing in Shmuel, but Daphne and Felicity, definitely, earthy, working class, their big behinds swaying back and forth as if to say “Yeah, I got a big ass, it’s a great ass. I’m beautiful as is.”
We were at the road. A quarter mile to go and then up to their house. Still I fought back the rush to move things along. I wanted to go their pace. So I focused on the strum of their padding, like an army of dwarves at boot camp, like bean bag pebbles being rolled along. Their feet are miraculous, pliable, tough, this orange stretch of membrane over a backward triangle, like lizard skin kites. And the horny nails, 3 in front and 1 hooked down on the back of the leg, are reminders of dinosaur ancestry swimming around in their DNA. That might be where the whole mutiny idea stemmed. “We’ll be led today, but who knows what’ll happen tomorrow. This is just the beginning, buster.”
I have such deep affection for our geese. Why is that? It gave me such sweet satisfaction guiding them home, letting them take up the whole road, stopping off for a moment to have a munch on a tall dandelion stalk that caught their eye, watching Shmuel lean over and rub necks with Mary Ann “How you doin’, baby? This pace okay with you, baby?” and her no nonsense, stoic replies. They are so dear to me. Funny. Such grace in such clumsy packages. Walking, waddling meditations.
I coaxed them gently into our drive at the mailbox, thanking them again for letting me lead them home and we continued up through the old orchard to their house and pen. No showdown with Shmuel at the gate, that’s gone by the wayside ever since the end of egg laying time. He did turn for a face-off, to make sure I latched them in correctly, and then as I meandered down the hill, I could hear them murmur to one another, Shmuel’s breathy comments a little higher than the others. (When he converses like that it always reminds me of Jiminy Cricket.) There were no complaints from any of them, they seemed glad to be home. Content. I could hear them drinking, that long dip down into the bucket, followed by a tilting back to let the liquid down their long necks, as if they’re teaching us how to fully appreciate a drink of water. And then they were sprucing up again, a once over on the feathers after travel, getting the dust out, preparing for a nice lay down in the grass. Have to keep up appearances wherever you are.
I don’t know if I shared with you that we have 2 baby goslings. They had been nabbed from the goose’s nest and were hatched in Richard’s incubator last weekend. They are adorable and are residing upstairs in a heat lamp warmed box in our attic. 1 gander, 1 goose. Richard and I are firmly imprinted on them, but we’re determined not to get too attached to them because they are already promised to the man who delivers our top soil. He wants them as guard geese, he’s already got a pen built, and he’s looking forward to sharing them with his grandkids. He definitely does NOT want them for meat birds which makes Richard feel better about parting with them. But it’s hard, it’s hard. There’s a little rebellion inside both of us and if we don’t watch it, we can feel the first signs of caving. It starts with little whisperings like “Oh, they’re so cute!” and then “Oh, what would 2 more geese hurt?” and soon it will be open rebellion against common sense. An uprising of the heart. Mustn’t cave. Mustn’t mutiny against the plan.
So now, to wean ourselves, instead of long cuddles on the couch with the goslings craning in for warmth under our chins, us braving little squirts on our sweatshirts, we try, TRY mind you, to come into the attic, greet them at their box, take in their adorable squeezebox tweets and their push for affection, and then, instead of a prolonged cuddle, we simply touch. And go.
I went down to Ron and Tabitha’s pond last evening around 6 to gather the geese and bring them home, a not uncommon chore. Ever since the Canada geese took possession of our pond across the road and given chase whenever our group gets near, Shmuel and the girls have daily taken an afternoon trek down the road a quarter mile, waddled through Ron’s pasture, and then down the meadowed hill to a clearing and the pond. Last night I’d finished all my chores and needed to get a move on to be able to catch a 7:00 film down in White River Junction, 37 miles away. If I was lucky, I’d look out my window and the geese would already have arrived, as they had the day before at this time. I looked, no such luck today. I will not rush, I told myself. It was a marvelous day, bold blue sky, clear, in the 70’s, dropping a bit. I crunched down our gravel road in shorts, braving the flies without Skin So Soft slathered on. And they left me alone, whataya know. It was the perfect time of day.
So down the road, past Ron’s house – I could make out his silhouette in his kitchen, sitting, listening to jazz, his doors open in front and back to cool the house. His lawn was freshly mowed and he’d cut a path all the way down the hill. For the geese, I thought. And at the bottom of the hill, at the far end of the pond, in shade, there they sat, the great white goose and his harem. They must’ve seen me coming, but they didn’t move, I came on slow. I began to favor the pond’s edge, getting in between them and the water, just in case they Dunkirked out away from me. And may I just say, I was gathering them not just because of a movie date, but a fox had been sighted in the area last night by our neighbors, Royce and Andy. They stopped by to tell us. And I didn’t trust that our geese would be safe coming home and putting themselves up on their own leaving their gate open and inviting.
I was nearly on them now and they began to stir, a slight complaint, sounding like kids being asked to come in from summer play after the sun’s gone down. They stood with a ruffle and Shmuel gave his familiar “I’m the man, so back off” shiver. That ritual over, we began the trek back home, slow and steady, me following and shepherding them forward, no fuss, no muss.
And then they stopped.
They just stopped.
They wouldn’t move.
I urged them on, waving my arms forward, this usually did the trick. No go. They stood their ground. And with every “Please” or “C’mon guys” they jabbered back, like their own mini-version of a town villager rabble or an old fashioned strike at the plant. Shmuel seemed to want to move, but the girls stood their ground, they were not going anywhere. Mary Ann seemed to be the main instigator, her tough, bass monotone gave a murmuring foundation to the mutiny. “Don’t give in, girls. He’s got nuthin’. Look, he’s sweatin’. He’s got no power. We’ve got him.”
So I surrendered. I gave in. I threw in the towel. And, satisfied, they all did a fluff and fold on their feathers. Now I do love watching that, this nibbling spruce up they do all over their bodies with clackering bills, necks craning like contortionists at a Cirque de Soleil summer retreat. A thorough going over, the works. And it was beautiful by the stream’s edge, the perfect time of day, green, calm, quiet. “Turn it into a meditation” I told myself. Okay, okay. And I thought – “So what next? What do I do now?” Very meditative, very turning it over.
And then they started moving. For no reason at all. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.” But at the bottom of the hill, they stopped again. This was different then the revolt. They seemed wary to be near the woods and the mown path I was guiding them towards edged right alongside it. I looked into the overgrowth wondering if there might be something in there. The fox? So I gave in again. I let go my insistence on the path and they immediately veered, no, scampered into the taller grass in the open field. And they took the at a good steady, athletic clip. I expected a chorus of “Val-de-ree, Val-de-rah!!” They are like hearty Canadians or Europeans. Not in great shape in a cosmetic American fashion; they’re of a heartier, peasant stock. There’s still an elegance in them, especially in Mary Ann, a touch of regal standing in Shmuel, but Daphne and Felicity, definitely, earthy, working class, their big behinds swaying back and forth as if to say “Yeah, I got a big ass, it’s a great ass. I’m beautiful as is.”
We were at the road. A quarter mile to go and then up to their house. Still I fought back the rush to move things along. I wanted to go their pace. So I focused on the strum of their padding, like an army of dwarves at boot camp, like bean bag pebbles being rolled along. Their feet are miraculous, pliable, tough, this orange stretch of membrane over a backward triangle, like lizard skin kites. And the horny nails, 3 in front and 1 hooked down on the back of the leg, are reminders of dinosaur ancestry swimming around in their DNA. That might be where the whole mutiny idea stemmed. “We’ll be led today, but who knows what’ll happen tomorrow. This is just the beginning, buster.”
I have such deep affection for our geese. Why is that? It gave me such sweet satisfaction guiding them home, letting them take up the whole road, stopping off for a moment to have a munch on a tall dandelion stalk that caught their eye, watching Shmuel lean over and rub necks with Mary Ann “How you doin’, baby? This pace okay with you, baby?” and her no nonsense, stoic replies. They are so dear to me. Funny. Such grace in such clumsy packages. Walking, waddling meditations.
I coaxed them gently into our drive at the mailbox, thanking them again for letting me lead them home and we continued up through the old orchard to their house and pen. No showdown with Shmuel at the gate, that’s gone by the wayside ever since the end of egg laying time. He did turn for a face-off, to make sure I latched them in correctly, and then as I meandered down the hill, I could hear them murmur to one another, Shmuel’s breathy comments a little higher than the others. (When he converses like that it always reminds me of Jiminy Cricket.) There were no complaints from any of them, they seemed glad to be home. Content. I could hear them drinking, that long dip down into the bucket, followed by a tilting back to let the liquid down their long necks, as if they’re teaching us how to fully appreciate a drink of water. And then they were sprucing up again, a once over on the feathers after travel, getting the dust out, preparing for a nice lay down in the grass. Have to keep up appearances wherever you are.
I don’t know if I shared with you that we have 2 baby goslings. They had been nabbed from the goose’s nest and were hatched in Richard’s incubator last weekend. They are adorable and are residing upstairs in a heat lamp warmed box in our attic. 1 gander, 1 goose. Richard and I are firmly imprinted on them, but we’re determined not to get too attached to them because they are already promised to the man who delivers our top soil. He wants them as guard geese, he’s already got a pen built, and he’s looking forward to sharing them with his grandkids. He definitely does NOT want them for meat birds which makes Richard feel better about parting with them. But it’s hard, it’s hard. There’s a little rebellion inside both of us and if we don’t watch it, we can feel the first signs of caving. It starts with little whisperings like “Oh, they’re so cute!” and then “Oh, what would 2 more geese hurt?” and soon it will be open rebellion against common sense. An uprising of the heart. Mustn’t cave. Mustn’t mutiny against the plan.
So now, to wean ourselves, instead of long cuddles on the couch with the goslings craning in for warmth under our chins, us braving little squirts on our sweatshirts, we try, TRY mind you, to come into the attic, greet them at their box, take in their adorable squeezebox tweets and their push for affection, and then, instead of a prolonged cuddle, we simply touch. And go.
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