SIX GEESE A-LURKING

My Uncle Leonard had the classic Middle-Western American farm, complete with red barn, silo, a herd of dairy cows, some pigs, chickens and geese. And the only creatures I came to fear were the geese.

They roamed the barnyard like great honking lords of the manor, harassing dog, cats and young boy in short pants, alike. And no matter how well you got on with the other animals, there was nothing you could do to convince those geese you only wanted to be friends.

I learned that early on and chalked up their bad attitude to some cruel twist of avian genetics.

But years later, I had the lesson driven home again as I was driving home along Silver Falls Road, the riverside route to my Kaministikwia cottage. 

To one side of the gravel track were homes and a few places that had once been farms, before the Finnish settlers discovered that the area's rose-red clay was really no good for growing anything more complicated than hay.

On the other side (within feet of the road) ran the majestic, blue-brown Dog River, once the highway of the Fur Trade and the Voyageurs' route to Western Canada.

On that particular day, I drove my little Datsun along the dusty space between, until I spotted some pedestrians in my path ahead.

A pair of geese were crossing from farm to water with four little goslings in tow. And as I slowed to let them cross, they slowed, too, and craned their long, white necks to have a better look at me. 

Then, apparently having decided that I wasn't going to pass, they stopped dead in their tracks and began to pick at the barren gravel around them in an unconvincing attempt to make me believe there was something there they fancied eating.

I came to a stop, as well, and sighed and waited... and waited... and waited.

A good five minutes went by, as I nervously watched my rear-view mirror for any less patient drivers that might come racing up behind me. 

There was no one about the farm to shoo the geese on; and even if there had been someone foolish enough to try, it would never have worked.

So, finally, I decided I'd had enough and did something I should have known better than to do.

I gave my horn a gentle tap.

And just that one, brief beep set the geese into a monumental rage.

They honked back at me with a lot more volume and raced at my vehicle with such fury that I actually felt the need to roll up the window for protection. 

But they didn't go for me. They went for my bumper and attacked it so ferociously that the little hatchback actually shook from the powerful, pounding pecks they gave it.

I sighed again and folded my arms and waited for their fury to subside. 

And after another two minutes, they stopped, gave me a final scolding honk, turned and waddled with their young down to the river. And as soon as I saw them bend down to have a drink, I stepped on the gas and peeled away. 


For weeks afterward, I dreaded driving past that spot. 

But I was never attacked again. And when I no longer saw any sign of the geese around that farm, I consoled myself with a malicious fantasy.

I pictured the farmer's family sitting down to dinner one night and a large tray being carried from the kitchen. And I only hoped that they enjoyed that meal with as much relish as I got just imagining it.

(Tomorrow: Day Seven - THE SWAN MAN OF ILKLEY - a more gentle view of the relationship between man and bird, as well as a special gift of British humour.)