I live about a block away from a pond. My grandparents live right next to it. After I went home, I visited my grandparents. While my grandma watched Oprah, I gazed out onto the pond. Around that time, Canadian geese would stop by the pond on their migration routes. My grandpa puts out corn for them. I was watching the geese when I noticed one of them had a weird wing. I brought this to my grandfather’s attention and asked him about it. He’d noticed too. He’d been watching that bird for days. The goose couldn’t fly anymore. Once the pond froze over, the goose would die either be eaten or would starve or freeze. But he also told me that not only did the wounded goose stay by the pond, but his flock would return to him every single day. They endangered their lives so that he wouldn’t be alone. I made it my mission to help this bird.
The Sunday after my discovery, I dined at my grandparent’s house. After serving dessert (apple cake with a light caramel glaze), I eyed the wounded goose which I intended to become a savior to. I had been brainstorming of ways that I could safely and simply save this southern-flying sufferer. I had none. I also had not yet convinced anyone that this water fowl was worth their work and worry. I was alone. But I was alone with a decent-sized scoop net and a canoe. So while my parents gossiped with my grandparents I began my rescue mission.
I changed into a pair of sweatpants that were in the car. I was also fortunate that I’d worn my warmest winter coat. I plodded through the poo left by the Canadian poultry in my grandparents’ backyard until I reached their small dock which nested their sun-faded cardinal-colored canoe. My goose friend (the one who, shortly, would owe me his life) sat on an island the size of a monopoly board in the middle of the pond, frequently flip-flapping his damaged right wing at his side. As I paddled towards him, the wind seemed to whisper that same message that I carried in my heart: Today is your day, goose-friend! I am here to save you! I’m kidding, the wind didn’t say that. But I did shout it at goose-friend from about sixty feet away. Loud noises are a great way to tell animals that you are their friend. The goose then squalked at me and launched off his little island.
Geese are incredibly persistent. Particularly when they believe their life is at stake. After an hour or so of canoeing and chasing, I had him cornered. I was about two feet away from him when I lunged at him with my net. He swiftly waddled (yes, swiftly waddled) up the steep muddy thicket that was the bank. I abandoned ship. I am master of both land and sea. No goose will evade my selfless, sacrificing, and eternal love. Ever.
For some reason, goose-friend didn’t slip on the steep slope and end up knee deep in very cold pondwater and silt like I did. Despite this, I pressed forward. But goose-friend was gone. I turned around. My canoe was also about fifteen feet away from the steep shore speckled with saplings. I clutched my net. It was getting rather dark, so after patrolling the area for my friend, I walked around the pond and went back to my grandparents’ home. I sat in their garage and pondered. I had to return their canoe. Normally their neighbors had a paddleboat. But after asking them, I learned they had already put it up for the winter. I returned to the dock. My eyes scanned the pond, hoping maybe the canoe had drifted to a side of the lake and I could walk and retrieve it. Not so. The canoe had gotten stuck on the same island that my goose-friend had been perched on earlier.
As I removed my flats, jacket, and half-soaked sweatpants, I briefly considered that foxes and coyotes need to eat too and that maybe death was best for goose-friend. My toes gripped the soft wood of my grandfather’s dock as I sprinted down its length. As I was jumping into the water I realized that I hadn’t really thought the whole swimming in 36 degree water situation through. But I had made a decision. So I furiously pumped my limbs for movement and warmth and I slowly made my way to the canoe. The air felt warmer than the water. My arms were hard and numb with cold as I grabbed one of the canoe’s docking ropes and swam it back. I hauled the canoe onto the grass of my grandparents’ lawn and sprinted into their garage having grabbed my clothes from the dock.
Despite all that, I still loved my stupid goose-friend. I also was not going to use the term “wild goose chase” so lightly in the future. It’s not the Scooby-Doo chase scene that people make it out to be. People get cold and sweaters get soggy.
I also wasn’t able to get at goose-friend when his flock was around. They’d protect him. They’d hiss at me and snap and flap and birds already sort of freak me out.
The other day I was driving home after making my artifact (I still do stuff sometimes) for the final in this class when I saw that goose friend was in my grandparents front yard. His flock hadn’t returned to him yet. I remembered that I had a blanket in the trunk. I grabbed the blanket and snuck up on him from behind and cornered him on my grandparents porch. He calmed down once his head was covered. It was an absolutely surreal experience. I felt the rise and fall of his breath under my fingers. I wrapped him up and took him to a wildlife rehabilitation center that I’d looked up earlier. Everything was going to be okay. Well, ultimately goose had to be put down –but that’s not the point.
This semester I was that goose. I was wounded and felt irreparable and hopeless. But you were my flock. I can’t thank you enough. I can’t thank you enough for the honesty in which you presented yourselves. I can’t thank you enough for the laughter you put into my life. I can’t thank you enough for the lightness and joy you brought to my soul when I was broken and my heart was heavy. But more than any of that, I can’t thank you enough for being my flock. For making me feel like I belonged somewhere. Like I was a part of something strong and beautiful and true. Thank you for giving me a taste of Zion.
Ruth Kindt
