The Mystery of the Missing Goose
When I pulled into the driveway this evening there was a thin line of steel grey streaked across the horizon; that time of day that is well past dusk, but not quite pitch dark. I hurried inside dropped my laptop and quickly slipped into my work clothes. With a few minutes of pseudo daylight left I had just enough time to feed and water before night time set in fully.
I moved around the barn like I was on auto pilot, moving from feeder to waterer to throwing down another layer of bedding. It’s a routine that I’ve done a thousand times over my life; a routine that may have included more animals, or fewer, but a routine that is always the same. Screaming animals get feed first, followed by filling water troughs, then checked over for any signs of discomfort, disease or injury, and this night was no different.
With no lambs in the barn and it too cold to be brooding meat chickens the barn is fairly empty, save for the laying hens and Sophie. In less than 15 minutes everyone was bedded down for the night, or so I thought.
As I walked across the barnyard, breathing in deeply the cool crisp air and admiring a tea stained moon and stars that sparkled like diamonds on velvet I stopped—stopped dead in my tracks. The kind of stop that your body brings about, but your brain can’t figure out why. I stood like a stone, slowing looking around at what might have caused my reaction. I stared at the barn. Nothing came. I looked at the greenhouse, dark and silent, still nothing. Then, as I panned around the garden it hit me. WHERE WAS SOPHIE?
Now, Sophie is a large Sebastopol goose mind you, and unlike a small bantam hen that can easily get missed she is large. Her body is the size of a basketball and she is so white she fairly sparkles in the moonlight. But, on this night she was nowhere. I looked in the barn again. Nothing. I checked under the sweet pea bush (a favorite place). Nothing. I walked and called and peeked and poked, but still no sign of her. In a last ditch effort I stood very still, hands on my hips and called her name, which usually elicits a honk or two, but still not a peep was heard.
As night continued to darken the inevitable began to penetrate my consciousness…she had meet with a predator. There was no more to be done, sadly, so I slowly walked into the house and continued on with inside chores.
My mind kept going over every little detail. I had seen and heard her in the morning when I fed. When I come home from work she is either nibbling grass or sitting by the back door. She’s loud when she hears noise in the driveway or the house. And, when it’s lying season, which it is now, she is too nasty of a bitch to succumb to any small predator. What happened?
As I laid in bed that night I couldn’t help but feel sad. No farmer wants to or likes to lose an animal, but I have to admit that I was grateful for the fact that I would not have any orphaned goslings. We had bought her as a pair with a little gander five years ago, but he died shortly after we got him, so her eggs are not fertile.
The next day the early morning sun blazed through my bedroom window, bringing me out of a dead sleep. There in my drowsiness, that half awake half asleep state I heard that familiar honking. As I bolted out of bed there she was standing in the middle of the yard, bossy as ever. I quickly threw on some work clothes and ran out the back door, but by the time I arrived on the scene she was gone. I looked around, but saw nothing. She didn’t honk when I called her. I didn’t see her anywhere, so I began an inch-by-inch search of the whole place. I knew she was out there somewhere and by God I was going to find her.
After searching all the logical places I crept around the back of the greenhouse, almost on hand and knees. The greenhouse sits at the back of the property almost surrounded by an overgrown bougainvillea on the east side and a pepper tree, in dire need of a trim, on the south side. I worked my way through the tangle of vines and branches and THERE! nestled beneath the low hanging branches and tucked under the tangle of vines she sat on her nest. I was so relieved, at least for a split second.
It had been more than a week since I picked up the egg she laid near the raised vegetable beds. My thoughts immediate went to the number of eggs she could have in her clutch. If she laid one a day, which geese normally do, that meant she could have…1…2…3…4…5…6…SHIT, almost a dozen, if I calculate from the day I found that egg near the garden beds.
Relief is never without its own predicaments. Now I have to “unthrone” her, gather up all the eggs she’s laid and dispose of them because I can’t eat them, they’ve been outside too long, they won’t hatch because they aren’t fertile, but they will attract other animals, and if left too long they will spoil and stink up the place. Yep, there is nothing else to be done, but pull all the eggs out from underneath her. She’s gonna hate that. And, if history repeats itself I will be enjoying the attack of a hopping mad goose every time I walk outside for the next few weeks. Such is life with animals.
I am glad she’s not hurt though.
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