GEESE

That summer, I walked out of house barefoot one morning and immediately stepped in goose poop.

After yelling a few choice curse words, I got out the hose.

I’m old school — I still get a newspaper. So I picked it up from the driveway, gingerly, thinking there might be more bombs dropped somewhere on my property. I opened it, imagining a note about the incident in the police report about an innocent victim assaulted by an animal.

Nothing.

Then I half-expected a detective to show up and take a statement, express sympathy to the victim, but no.

I scanned the neighborhood, seething, waiting for a glimpse of him. But he must have waddled away to terrorize someone else.

So I went back inside, took my shoes off and put them by the washing machine, and called for my son Adam to get ready.

It was the last week before his senior year started, and Adam still had a lot of hours to get in before his driver’s test, which was supposed to happen the day after Labor Day. I couldn’t wait for him to start taking himself to school.

Adam put his shoes on, grabbed the keys from the table by the door, and rushed out in excitement. Before I had a chance to warn him, he got out into the yard and sure enough, he stepped in it too.

“What the fuck is that?” He said, picking his foot up and looking at the mess under it.

“Language,” I said in my sternest dad voice.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Geese,” I said, and again, I got out the hose.

**

I was still getting used sitting in the passenger seat of my car, but I guess I needed to start getting accustomed to the idea. Adam was getting older, would be driving me around now, would even be going off to college next fall. I suddenly felt old, wistful, distracted from the task at hand.

“Dad,” he said, breaking me out of my rumination. “Did you hear me?”

“What?” I said.

“Are we doing the freeway today?” He asked.

“Sure, that’s a good idea,” I said. “That will definitely be on the test.”

So he backed the car up, not using the camera like is standard these days, but the way I taught him — put your arm over the passenger seat, turn your head around, and actually look at the rear window while you go. Like I said, I’m old-school.

He backed up quickly, and right as I was about to remind him to slow down, we heard a sound.

“Did you hear that?” Adam asked.

“Yeah,” I said. It was a honk, but not the kind that comes from a car.

We looked on the car’s camera now, and sure enough, a big old goose was standing there.

“Dad, what the hell is going on?” He asked.

“Fuck if I know,” I said.

“Language!” Adam said, and we both laughed.

The goose, startled by our mirth, walked off into the neighbor’s yard.

**

The next morning was a Sunday. Again, Adam and I were to log more miles for his license, and when I went to get the Sunday edition of the Times, this time goose crap was all over the drive way. It wasn’t just one or two, but dozens, littering our concrete.

And it smelled.

The hose wouldn’t do anymore, so I got out the pressure washer and went to work, covering my mouth with an old bandana I used to use in the early days of COVID lockdown before I graduated to N95 masks.

I noticed while spraying that the geese had migrated over the the nearby creek, were playing in the water, sunning themselves, it seemed to me. It made me unreasonably angry that they were enjoying the day while I had to clean up their mess, and as silly as it seems, I felt a resentment towards them that felt immature and irrational. 

In an effort to be pro-active, after finishing the task and washing my hands thoroughly, I went inside and googled the number of the local animal control, then called them up.

“Hello,” I said. “I don’t know if I’m calling the right place for this issue, but my neighborhood currently has an infestation of geese, and I’m wondering what to do about it.”

“Thanks for your call, sir,” the woman on the other end of the line replied. “Can I get your name?”

“Michael Miller,” I said, and provided my address.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and I heard the sound of typing on the other end. “I will file your report.”

“Is that it?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Unfortunately, geese are a protected species in the area, so other than noting their migration patterns, there’s not much we can do.”

“But, wait,” I said. “They’ve been…soiling my lawn.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I know that must be irritating.”

“It’s more than irritating, it’s a public health issue.”

“I understand your frustration, sir, and I can send you some information about mitigation efforts.”

“No,” I said, slumping in my chair, “you’ve done enough.”

“Thank you for your call,” she said, her voice ever chipper. “And have a nice day.”

**

The drive that day with Adam was uneventful, at least until the end. Adam was a good driver, took all of my teaching and suggestions, was conscientious and alert and defensive and didn’t rely too much on all the new technology that modern cars have. Hell, he barely used cruise control, even on the interstates.

So I was feeling good about his progress, and told him so as we rode back into our neighborhood, grinning like the proud dad that I was. I put my hand on his shoulder and thought a tear might come to my eye, thinking this was a moment we’d remember, my little guy growing up, becoming a man, flying the coop soon. 

He looked over at me and smiled back, was about to say something, and that’s when it happened.

A horde of geese flew in front of the car suddenly. Adam looked back at the road and let out a yelp, then I said something nonsensical that I can’t remember, and he pulled the wheel and swerved out of the way, and we ended up in a ditch, thumping to a stop.

Silence.

We were inches from a metal mailbox post that would have totaled the car. I sat there in the passenger seat stunned, taking deep breaths while my son sat next to me saying oh my god over and over, hyperventilated. 

Then a goose honked.

I saw red then, and got out of the car, running towards the birds, trying to kick them in turn. They were too fast for me and skittered away, honking from their stupid beaks the whole time. I sat down in the street, out of breath, before Adam came to help me up. 

Then I got my phone out and called a tow truck.

**

That night, I dreamt of them. 

I shot bottle rockets, leftover from the 4th, at a plump flying over my house. I caught one and carved it like it was a Thanksgiving bird, roasted in a pan with carrotsrosemary. I was on a date with my ex-wife at a beachside resort, telling her about the geese in our old house, and her laughing and touching me on the leg with delight.

And then I found myself slumped on my property with a box of plastic bags, picking up green piles of their leavings until I rapidly aged and fell into the ground itself, and that’s when I woke up.

**

Every morning there was more. The next day, while I was back at work and Adam was at home, enjoying the final days of summer, he called me while I was at my morning meeting.

First of all, he’s a teenager: he never calls, he only texts, so I knew it was serious. I leaned over to my supervisor and whispered, “It’s my son, I have to take this,” then went out into the hallway.

“Is everything OK, Adam?” I asked.

“Dad, they’re everywhere!” He said, and I could hear the fear in his voice.

“Who? What?” I asked.

“The geese, Dad.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I said.

“You don’t even know,” he said, then I got the notification that he was FaceTiming me.

I accepted, and what I saw on my screen was hard to believe.

Our whole back yard looked like a goose sanctuary, a huge group of them strutting and clucking and cackling in a cacaphony. They was goose shit all over, and Adam said the smell was incredible. There were so many I couldn’t count them all, including a new group of goslings, and I knew there was nothing I could do.

I told my supervisor that my son was sick, and I raced home. As I arrived, I saw the gaggle had gone into our front yard, so I revved the engine and drove right onto my own lawn, doing donuts on the grass in an attempt to run them over.

Adam dashed out the front door to try to stop me, but it was too late. I had killed a few, feathers flying threw the air and onto my hood, before I put on the brakes, the car akimbo.

The rest of the geese clucked away, back down to the creek. I got out of the car, asked Adam if he was OK. He just nodded, wide-eyed, looked at the destruction: the yard, the car, the dead animals.

I asked him in an even tone if he would do me the favor of putting the car in the garage and shutting the door, and he said yes. I went into the house and sat down at the kitchen table, drank a whole glass of water in one big gulp, then called animal control again.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Michael Miller, and I’m calling again about the goose issue in my neighborhood.”

“Yes, Mr. Miller, thanks for your call. What can I do for you?”

“It’s my understanding that the geese are a protected species. What exactly does that mean?”

“Well, sir, last year, the California Legislature passed Senate Bill 147, which indicated a variety of species that were determined to have various levels of protection. Wild geese were one.”

“I understand that,” I said, trying to figure out how to say the next thing. “What if one were to, say, violate that law?”

“Sir, did you violate the law?”

“No no no,” I said, chuckling a bit to try to diffuse the situation. “I just meant, theoretically.”

“In that case, sir, it is my duty to inform you that violating federal ESA provisions can result in civil penalties up to $25,000 per violation, or criminal penalties carrying fines up to $50,000 and up to one year in prison. Per animal.”

“Thank you for the information,” I said.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” She asked.

“No, thank you,” I said, and hung up.

Just then, Adam came back in the house, and I heard the sound of the garage door closing behind him.

He stared at me with a strange look, like he was seeing me for the first time. I looked right back at him and didn’t say a word.

Then we went outside silently and buried those dead geese in the backyard.

And now you know why we moved.