Shmuel could use your good thoughts

I wrote this mid-week last week, I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday. It gets hazy in my mind:


“It sounded different this time, their cry. I’m used to hearing the geese giving off clarion calls throughout the day and if Richard’s home he’ll rush to see if anything’s amiss. I usually know nothing’s wrong. But this time it was different. I was upstairs in bed for a quick power nap, I’d just gotten off the phone with Richard 5 minutes before. I heard a squawk rustle on the grass below and though it sounded as if it should be the chickens I knew it was the geese. And I knew something was wrong. I bolted up in my bed and looked down out of the window. There were all 5 except Shmuel, standing there, looking back toward the road. They didn’t look especially troubled. Then Shumuel flew in and when he got to them, he stumbled, lost his balance. ‘Something’s wrong! He’s been in a fight with something! He’s hurt!’ I flew out of bed, grabbing some clothes, anything near, and catapulted down the stairs. As I tore through the living room I could make out an animal just across the road peering up over the rise which leads up from the pond. It was stocky, not a fox, too big. It reminded me of a prarie dog who’d been working out. What was it? A coyote? A dog? And if it were a dog, is this the new one the people down the road got to replace the huskie who killed 7 of our chickens the day before it was shot this past April? I quickly fantasized striding down the road to pick a fight with the guy. Richard had kept quiet about it, but I wasn’t above bringing up past history because his new dog just bit our gander! God, fantasies of revenge come quick. I dashed across the kitchen, and screamed out some frustration of powerlessness as I barreled through the screen door onto our front lawn. The animal, whatever it was, took off, then just as quickly circled back. It must be a coyote, I thought. But it doesn’t have a tail. It looked so different from California ones. Who cares! I wasn’t letting go of the neighbor’s dog idea, not yet, but first I needed to take care of Shmuel. I needed to get some more clothes on too.

Clothes on and I was out the back in search of the geese. I saw Shmuel trying to get a drink of water from the grey litter box turned into a drinking receptacle. He leaned forward, wobbled, caught his balance. Couldn’t do it. He looked like a drunk. Poor baby. I grabbed the white water bucket and raced over, my intention to either fill the grey box higher with water or to give him the bucket, something much closer to his head so he wouldn’t have to bend down so far. That’s when I saw the blood. It was splattered across the snow of his white feathery back. I choked back a gasp of tears. Poor baby, poor baby. And this was the animal I had intended on getting rid of. Pissed he was such a pisser, pooping all over the place. Oh Shmuel. Was he still bleeding? It didn’t look like it. There’s some blood on his neck, it must be a neck wound.

I quickly decided to gather them and corral them up by their coop. Shmuel was very obedient, dazed, the others were recalcitrant, chatty. I was pulsing with panic and anger. I couldn’t take seeing him wounded like this. He had defended them against a coyote. And I flashed at how he’d never really been tested. He’d bitten humans, thrown punches with his wings and maybe a punch had loosed the coyote’s/dog’s jaws from around his neck, but that “sticking your neck out” (just got the source of that saying) to intimidate someone else is all theatre. There’s nothing behind it but show. It makes you so vulnerable. Ah sweet Shmuel.

I got the group to the coop gate door and of course one of the young girls over shot the entrance and was separated from the group (On purpose? Who knows. Oh, I doubt it. What, Dan, do you think she was starving for attention?!) She began screaming and I’m going ‘Oh, great, now Shmuel will get all worked up wanting to be the father defender and he can’t now and everyone else will flip out too. Argh!’ I circled her back and by then, of course, everyone else was out again. I circled them around once more, poor ole Shmuel stumbling along with them, and we get back to the coop gate and the same thing happened again! Fuck. And now the turkeys came over for a look see. This was not going well. I kicked the turkeys out of the way (no, not literally) and erected a barrier that would force direct ALL the geese into their pen when I circled them back a third time and this time -- success. Everyone safe and sound.

I calmed myself. They were looking at me. I was looking at them. I needed to see where Shmuel was injured. I was able to separate him from the others and I embraced and soothed him (I hope) He nibbled on me softly and I knew that if he had his full strength back those nibbles would be leaving bruises, but for now they felt like soft kisses. Despite the circumstance, I loved being able to pet his soft white neck. I’d wished many times to be able to do this; I hadn’t wanted it to happen like this though. I combed through his feathers and thought I saw bite marks, but wasn’t sure. Shmuel was struggling a bit and I let him go. What to do? What to do? I decided to go in and get some Aloe Vera healing gel we’d had for years for a cat injury long ago back in LA. I got inside and went to where I knew it should be and couldn’t find it. Anywhere. And I searched lots of places. Especially the places where I knew it MUST be. Because I’d PLACED it there. I flew into a rage and yelled out to the empty rooms as I strode through them: “Why can’t people (namely Richard) put things back where they’re supposed to go?!!” I could picture it in my mind’s eye, but no matter how many times I went back to the places I KNEW it should be it never showed up. I was beyond livid. And at the same time, a side of me could see the assinie ridiculousness of my behavior and that side of me knew it was going to turn around and bite me in the ass. And sure enough, I became the culprit, hoisted on my own petard. There the Aloe Vera gel was on the bottom shelf of my bedside table where I must’ve MISplaced it. I thanked God/Universe/whatever that Richard hadn’t been present for my embarrassing “blowing off steam” tirade and swore to him/it/whatever that I would learn some great lesson of humility from this.

I returned to Shmuel a chastened man with the Aloe Vera gel and a rag to wash away the blood from his back. The rag worked somewhat. I slowly unfolded his wings to check to see if they’d been injured at all. No sign of damage. Then I carefully parted his neck feathers. High up the neck, there they were, 2 hefty puncture holes. A little bit of meat stuck out of one of them. Cradling Shmuel, I slowly removed the cap from the Aloe Vera, dipped my finger inside, and lightly applied the gel to the wounds. ‘You get better big guy’ I whispered. I longed to hear him bray out or bite me, but all I got now were slight wheezes and wobbles. He had t be in shock. He must be whipped. And I left him again. I would return a couple more times to observe him.“

The next day I contacted a vet who urged me to wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide and gave me a prescription for tetracycline to be dissolved in the water he drinks. “The most important thing is to get him to eat,” the vet said and so over the past few days I’ve very imperfectly turkey baster fed Shmuel with baby food while also syringe forcing the tetracycline mixture down his throat. He has drunk it from his bucket too, but it’s so hard keeping him separated to do that and not letting the others drink it as well. I’ve gone back and forth keeping him from the rest of the flock – the act breaks my heart - and bringing them together, continually judging whether I’m doing the right thing, wondering whether or not I’ve been giving the right amounts of medicine, giving him enough rest, on and on. It’s hard to know. He has shown signs of improvement everyday and I’m reminded by Richard that he is a wild animal and we’ve seen animals make miraculous recoveries here on their own. “He may never be the same,” Richard opined last night before bed after seeing Shmuel that day, “and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Gone may be the days of his constant territorial-ness with his neck out stretched in defiance, blue eyes piercing through me, bill ready to bite and bruise, warning the others that we’re no good, that they should run for cover. Who knows. Time will tell. I feel as if he’s a war veteran back from the front, never to be the same, not quite.

The last few mornings I have let them all out on the pond for a couple hours. I’ve spoken of the silly way of “flying” they have, very serious, barely getting off the ground, sort of like kids playing airplane, flapping their wings while running. Shmuel’s flying is a bit off right now, his neck isn’t completely healed and I think it sends his balance off, as if he’s not going where he intends to be going, slightly out of control. Further strengthening may alleviate that maladay. Again, time will tell. I watched very parentally as they swam around and thought Shmuel needed to put just a little bit more effort into his swimming, his body moving more then the others, not the easy, confident, effortless glide it used to have. ‘He’s trying to stay the lead of the pack,’ I thought. Who knows. That said, though, he was the picture of happy playfulness later on. Maybe that’s what was going on, maybe not, but I just sat on the bank at a bit of a remove and smiled and smiled. It made my heart light. Shmuel was near the shore with the 2 older geese, Mary Ann and Ginger, and began doing roll overs in the water with them; they each took turns. Shmuel would dive, butt and feet whirling up in the air, then he’d right himself in a flippy sort of way and flap his wings powerfully. A bit off balance, granted, but it looked grand. Maybe he’ll turn into a big sweetheart. I just hope this whole thing hasn’t broken his spirit. I hope I haven’t had any part in breaking his spirit by turkey baster feeding him, holding him down, separating him from his brood. “You probably have a bit,” Richard said when I spoke of this this morning. I was seeking support – an “oh, don’t be silly honey” not necessarily bald honesty. “But you did the right thing,” Richard added. I hope. Ah well.

I’m going to go check in on him. Think good thoughts for a swell gander.