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.