Email
PrintFinale: Goose gauntlet
Illustration by Mario Noche
You just can’t reason with a goose.
And trust me, I’ve tried. Oh, how I’ve tried.
It’s spring once again and this means the bike path along the Olentangy River is filled with fluffy and adorable little goslings and their incredibly protective parents.
Get close to their precious little babies—which is all but impossible not to do since the entire family just stands there, right in the middle of the path, blocking the way, refusing to move their webbed feet—and Mom and Dad go into a regular and literal hissy fit.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m scared of geese.
Like you wouldn’t be afraid of these fine-feathered fiends?
Of course you would. And you know exactly what I’m talking about if you use the path.
Geese are a lot bigger than you think, especially up close and personal. They must weigh like 30 or 40 pounds, and it’s all feathers and muscle. They stare at you with those cold, cruel little eyes and snap open their nasty beaks. Sometimes they even flap their wings and actually fly right at you, like an airplane buzzing a village. Now I know how Tippi Hedren felt in The Birds.
Sure, it’s cool and impressive, in a Disney-cartoon sort of way, that Mom and Dad are such devoted parents. But, hey, Mr. and Mrs. Goose: I’m not a threat and I need to pedal past you and your family. I have an important meeting downtown and I don’t think the people I’m seeing are going to buy my excuse that a really scary, giant goose was blocking the path. Even worse, those folks would tag me as Goose Boy. Not a good thing.
Anyway, I try to reason with the geese. “OK, OK, I’m not going to hurt anyone. Just move over a little and I’ll ride on by and nobody will get hurt. Hey, it’s called a multipurpose path for a reason, so share the road. Please move over; I really have to get by.”
Instead, they continue to glare and flap and snap at me, as if they don’t understand a word I’m saying.
I whistle and make barking noises, but this doesn’t work, either. In fact, I think it makes them even angrier. Like I said, you just can’t reason with a goose.
And then I ask myself: WWJHD?
I’m sure Jack Hanna would figure out a way to communicate with, gain the trust of and take these geese on an all-expenses-paid trip to Jay’s or Dave’s show. And then they would all have a big laugh over how they had tormented me. They might even get their own reality show.
But, hey, I’m no Jack Hanna. I’m just an ordinary man, unable to befriend geese, and I need to pedal down the path and get on with my life.
Fortunately, after a few minutes, and taking their sweet time about it, the Goose family waddles off the path and I can ride past. Whew! In the past, sometimes they have continued to stand their ground, staring me down. I had no choice but to muster up the little bit of my courage and start pedaling, praying they didn’t attack.
To date, I’ve made it through the goose gauntlet unscathed, other than the assault on my pride. Thank goodness, as it would be totally embarrassing to explain the beak marks on my face to friends and family members.
“Uh, I was attacked by a cougar,” I’d lie.
I don’t think anyone would buy it.
In the meantime, I’ll be forced to live in dread of disfigurement every spring—or find a therapist who specializes in the fear of fowls.
Then again . . . Jack, give me a holler and tell me how to deal with these geese. Or, you should devote a show—or an exhibit at the zoo—to this vital topic. Or at least send me the e-mail address of an expert in the field, like the Aflac duck. n
Steve Wartenberg is a freelance writer.
