Will no one think of the goslings?

Driving along a canal today, we flushed three pheasants. They were gorgeous, flying wild, in browns and rich russets and iridescent greens. Naturally, the conversation turned to the opening day of pheasant season. Next week, they thought, ‘cause ducks a’ been open for a week now. “You know,” said one, “I just don’t care for duck. I do like a nice goose.”

“I never eat goose,” said the district engineer. “They mate for life, you know. Why, I drive by the same canal on the way to work, so I see it every day. Like a snapshot. One spring, I drove by and some coyote killed a goose. Big batch of feathers down the bank, and the carcass just had a bite out of it. That afternoon, when I drove by, there was just one goose, sitting on the bank near the body. Next morning, the goose was still there. Next afternoon, more of the carcass was gone, but that goose was still there. Well, this went on for a week and still that goose stayed on that bank. Happened I was there when that goose went back to the flock. They was all on the water, you know, then the whole flock rose up like they do. The whole flock rose up and turned north, started flying. They got up there, and that one goose broke off and came back. Landed right on that bank, where the body was. Chose to stay and die right there.”

“I can’t eat goose no more,” he said, his voice still heavy. “And ‘sides that, I just think of them goose children. Why, they gotta be latchkey geese. Running loose, getting’ into drugs, bustin’ things up. It just ain’t right.”