I was driving to King Soopers for groceries this afternoon when I noticed it:
The geese are back.
I didn’t know this when I moved here, but apparently Littleton, Colorado is a go-to destination for wintering geese. Crowds of the waterfowl arrive when the weather gets cold – so many that they take over virtually every open space with sheer numbers that are impressive and disturbing.
They leave in the spring, and for the past six months or so, I hadn’t really thought about them. But today, the birds had returned, lined up like arrogant infantrymen alongside the golf course pond, making the grass as crowded as the sand in the summer at Rehoboth Beach.
So, I apologize in advance; this week’s post is going to be a rant, because I don’t like geese.
Let’s start with the obvious: Geese poop a lot.
There’s no better way to say that. I tried three different sentences and they all came back to the same thing.
Consequently, geese are a nightmare for sidewalks and shoes. That’s very important to note, but it’s not the only reason I don’t like them.
No, here’s the real reason I don’t like geese: I’m inclined to anthropomorphize animals, and based on the qualities I attribute (with total fairness) to geese, I’m certain they would make bad people.
Watch a goose and you’ll see.
They’re arrogant. They’re mean. They have two moods: They’re either utterly apathetic or in a froth-beaked, self-righteous hubbub about something. There’s no in between.
I admit that there’s a certain nobility to geese, but it’s the haughty nobility of the rich kid who only wears name-brand clothing and throws a fit when their teacher gives them a B-minus or their mom doesn’t let them drive the family Tesla.
Shoot, if geese drove cars, they’d be the person who crawls 40 miles per hour on the highway, trying to use voice-to-text to send their friend an emoji while oblivious to the traffic around them. But they’d also be the person who uses the horn every time they merge and rolls down the window at stoplights to yell at the old woman they think cut them off.
Fortunately, geese don’t drive cars.
But they do walk with infuriating slowness across the road in front of mine, especially when I’m six minutes late. Sometimes I make eye contact with them to communicate my displeasure, and even though they don’t have lips, I swear they smile.
I’m not the only one who knows that geese must be dealt with.
Alli and I have noticed a van parked on a side street in Littleton. It’s painted plain white, and on the side of it, marked in a black font that I think is Comic Sans, are two words: “Geese Control.”
I’ve always loved the marketing concept, but I used to wonder what was inside the van. A scarecrow? Air horns? A flamethrower?
Then, one day while we were walking by, the door of the adjacent house opened and three large dogs sprang out. They bounded to the vehicle, tongues lolling, and an old man ambled after them, sliding open the side door of the van so they could jump in.
Before he swung it closed, I saw the dogs frolicking on the empty floor, yipping with the joyful energy of creatures going to fulfill a great purpose.
I regret to tell you that I haven’t seen that crew in action.
But I’m glad to tell you this:
I have seen a retriever let off its leash at Baker Park at 6:30 in the morning, when the mist rising from the damp ground hid a sleeping flock of geese from the gaze of the dog’s owner.
And I remember the moment when that dog, after a few moments of snuffling through the grass, raised it’s head and sighted the birds.
There was a millisecond of stillness.
Then, pandemonium.
The dog rushed headlong into the heart of the flock. Its owner, taken by surprise, scrambled belatedly after it, shouting futile commands and making furious, unseen gestures for a halt in the direction of the dog’s hindquarters.
Whether from the noise of the human or from some animal-kingdom ability to sense danger, the geese were roused in time, and they scattered in shock, chattering indignantly.
None were caught.
I watched as the dog’s owner stooped in relief, hands on knees, huffing. The dog bounded back and forth across the empty grass, panting with the elation of the chase.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen more joy on a creature’s face.
It was beautiful.
I feel a tiny modicum of that dog’s joy when the geese leave Littleton each spring. For now, though, I’ll put up with them.
After all, geese are creatures, too. I know that, in spite of their apparent arrogance, they’re just animals, and that for all of their noise and poop, they’re not doing anything awful.
They’re just being geese. It’s what they do.
But I won’t lie to you.
I still hope that this winter, I’ll get to see “Geese Control” fulfill its high calling.
-Jon
Update on Music Stuff
Little news: I’ve switched this email (and my blog) over to Substack. I’ve been wanting to try the platform out for a while, and this week I decided to go for it. Hopefully there’s not a big difference, but lmk if anything looks weird.
Big news: I’ve scheduled a song for release on November 11th.
It was an adrenaline rush pushing the “Submit” button.
I told you the song was going to be called “Prius”, but I last-minute changed the name to “Signs”, mostly because I didn’t want the cover art to be a picture of a Prius (that would’ve been weird, right?).
Next week, as prep for the release, I’ll probably write a serious post about the story behind the song, and I probably won’t even say the word “geese” once.
Talk soon. As always, thanks for reading.