The Goose (a Pizza Dude Tale)

Ever have a connection with a wild animal? The kind that makes you feel one with the natural world? Like you’re part of God’s grand scheme? I have. And it’s all well and good if the critter acknowledges your presence, gives a regal shake of its magnificent head and disappears into the mist, leaving you breathless and thinking big thoughts. But what if the wild beast simply hates your guts?

Every spring Canada Geese invade shopping malls and shopping plazas all across North America to lay their eggs in the manicured, man-made islands that dot the landscape. At our mall, mating pairs were everywhere, and just like people, each couple had different personalities. Some were full of piss and vinegar until you approached, and then they would back off in a hurry, leaving behind little green piles of bird turd as evidence of their craven cowardice.

Other pairs, however, were a little harder to intimidate. A team that nested over on the east side – I named them Bart and Lisa – quickly gained legendary status. 

They say birds – not lizards – are the most direct link to the age of the dinosaur, and if you watch Canada Geese up close – but not too close, unless you wanna get T-Rexed upside the head – you’ll see what I mean. This goose seemed to hate all things human. Certainly every time any of us walked by he would fluff up his wings and give a little hiss. If we got too close, he would take his performance to the next level by spreading his wings wide and hissing – “hissssspp” – like some prehistoric reptile. If that didn’t work we got the neck treatment: he would advance upon us, bending his neck into an ‘S’ shape, straightening it, then continuing the routine until we were summarily chastised.

It was kinda funny, except we had to get the garbage near the nest, so the ritual would be repeated on a daily basis, with the nest guarding Lisa – who generally never moved from her unhatched babies - adding her own raptor-like hisses to the din.

Bart and Lisa’s nest wasn’t on my normal route. But a couple of the young lads couldn’t handle big Bart and word got back to the boss that garbage wasn’t being picked up. “You better get that goddamn garbage, or I’ll get it myself,” he huffed and puffed. “And there’ll be one less bird when I’m done.”

Partly to ensure the goose would survive to see his little goslings leave the nest – and partly to show the boys that I wasn’t a scaredy cat, I volunteered for the job.

Now this wasn’t my first nature rodeo, and I know well enough to leave then be if they’re nesting. It’s the right thing to do, but it’s also a wise course of action because they’re nasty bastards. They’ve been known to kill ducks and other smaller waterfowl who ventured too close. Hundreds of species go extinct every day in this world. Who knows? Maybe some of those were wiped out by a Canada Goose having a bad day.

But I knew I had no choice but to confront my foe. If we were going to share the parking lot, there had to be an understanding between us. Man and nature have battled for supremacy of this planet for millions of years, and this fight would be no different. Either he stands down, or he birds’ up. There can only be one winner.

The next morning, I got the run that took me past Bart and Lisa’s nest. There they were, waiting for me. And there I was, broom in hand, intimidating snarl on my face. Bart hissed, I said “show me what you got.” Bart advanced, neck coiling in that serpentine way. I grabbed my broom, took two steps towards Bart, and shouted, “You want some of this?!”

Bart backed down. He didn’t bird up. Bart left a trail of shit behind him. I won.

For the next two days, I walked tall among all the goose nests feeling like the King of the Waterfowl. No goose gave me trouble. And I liked that feeling.

On day three I found myself at Lisa’s nest, giggling at her weak “hissp” and thinking superior thoughts. And just as I turned to leave, Bart swooped down over my head. The ‘whoosh’ from his feathers was audible, the trickle of warm goo I felt oozing down my scalp horrifying.

It was payback – prehistoric style. Nasty bastards.