The Grafton Voice

© 2008 Sally A. Dunn Silliest Goose by SAS Dunn How much is the life of one rather large, white goose worth? That's the question before me today. The particular goose in question is one Gerturde P. Goose. She's the kind of goose who would look just fine on the table for a Christmas feast. But, of course, I'm not planning to roast her. She's my friend, and the best source of laughter I've found in this serious world. You haven't lived until you've seen a fat, white goose climb a flight of rock stairs for the honor of nesting in a cactus garden. But that's my Gerty. Don't get me wrong, I don't approve of fowl nesting in cactus and have taken appropriate steps to discourage such behavior. But she does have her own ideas about such matters. Gerty came to live with us in perfect goose weather. One Sunday, early in April, water filled the world: heavy clouds leaked intermittent showers, mist clung to the budding trees, moisture trickled through the thawing earth. That day, my husband opened the front door to venture forth. He rushed back in to me. With his face glowing with the awe of an astonished child, he announced, "There's a swan in our driveway!" I hurried out to see. "That's not a swan! That's a goose!" I'd studied science in college. I knew the difference. I stated the facts. What I hadn't been taught in college was that the term, "Silly as a goose," was based on fact: geese are silly. For two years now, since she decided to stay with us, Gerturde Percivale Goose has been teaching me all there is to know about silly geese.Walking up a hill is a simple matter. Almost anyone can do it. But only Gerty can raise such an act to sublime heights of hilarity. When she ascends a hill, she puts her whole heart and soul into it. Reaching her neck forward, thrusting out her chest, she throws herself at the hill with grim determination. She looks as if she were pushing against a strong head wind, and all the while she's gabbling to herself, "Gluck-gluck, gluck. Gluck." Even during my bleakest moments, such a sight softens my face to a smile. Soon after Gertrude came to stay, a severe thunderstorm rocked our neighborhood. Curtains of rain deluged the earth. Wind gusts blasted giant maples to the ground. Safe in our house, my husband and I watched nature's orgy of power. Suddenly, we remembered our goose! "Gerty!" We shouted in unison and ran to the door. We prayed we weren't too late. We feared the worst. As we opened the door, the downpour blasted in on us. Finally spotting her, we broke out laughing. Gertude Percivale stood in the driveway amid torrents of wind thrown rain casually drinking from a puddle. Mother nature was no foe of hers. Now we must put a price on her head. Just yesterday, though it seems like empty years ago, that same little boy, my husband, who rushed in with the news that there was a swan in our driveway, rushed in yesterday crying, "Something terrible has happened! I ran over the goose!" She bled from one eye and her nose, and her left wing hung out at a nauseating angle. The Vet gave her a fifty-fifty chance of survival. We came home without her to wait and hope, and for my husband to come to terms with his accidental crime. Now we have the news. She'll live, if we choose to spend the money, a small fortune to us, for two operations to fix her broken wing. They won't operate until tomorrow when she's more stable, so we have tonight to ponder the worth of one goose's life. There are two schools of thought on such matters. One states that we should have put her to sleep immediately (actually, one friend said we should have shot her on the spot). The other gushes that you can't brutally kill a beloved pet and that no expense is too much. My problem is I don't belong to either school. So, I must make such decisions without hard and fast rules. I have to do it without emotion, too. I'd like to have some emotion. I know it would help. Easily, if love, compassion or sympathy filled my heart, the goose would live. But I can't find my emotions. They've deserted me: chased away by the need to comfort my husband's agony over his tragic carelessness. He had known that Gerty was in the driveway. She loved the driveway. More accurately, she loved our truck. She would sleep next to it at night. Gabbling all the way, she'd follow along side it to the end of the driveway every time that truck tried to leave her. And when it came home to her, she would honk her pleasure and rush out to escort it back to its parking place. Yesterday morning, she got in front of the truck: she got too close. At least a million times, I had told my husband to be careful not to run over my goose. But he didn't listen to me then, and I can't say it to him now. His pain is too raw. So I've stuffed my anger away. My emotions also got buried when I had to steel myself to step out the door to face the blood and the gore. (My husband couldn't do it.) I expected to find her dead. That she was alive was a relief: that she needed care, obvious. Again, emotions locked away, I took action. At the Vet's, too, I needed a clear head - to discuss details and treatments. Then going home, more tears from my husband; he needed my care. Now, when emotion would be welcome, it eludes me. Heartless and stern, I must count the worth of my friend. I wonder how life would be without her. I wouldn't have to feed her twice a day, three times in winter. I wouldn't step in goose poop every time I walked out the door. It's amazing how much waste one animal can produce. Her honking and carrying on wouldn't set the dog to barking. With Gerty gone I could take back possession of the garden under the kitchen window. Flowers would probably love the goose fertilizer that has built up over the two years she's been roosting there. In summer, I wouldn't have to police the grounds for the endless feathers she leaves behind when she molts: feathers which my dog loves to eat, despite the fact that they make him choke. Of course, the cat would be depressed for a while. Gertude and Otto are great friends. They often lie down together and watch the world go by. Well, not actually together. They have too much personal dignity for that. They keep a discrete two or three feet apart. The dog, too, might get depressed. He's already been looking for her. He might even starve to death if he doesn't get fresh goose poop to eat. My husband would be the most depressed. He already feels the guilt for having run her down. To be the cause of her death would be a weight on his heart for years. That leaves just me. Will I be depressed if I send her to her death? I know I'm already depressed about the money we've spent to get her this far. I forgot about the dandelions. I guess without Gerty here to eat them, they will renew their assault on the lawn. I wonder how my little girl is doing tonight, alone in a cage at the Vet's. Does she know her life hangs in the balance? I bet she'd like some dandelions now. I can just see her now, in the yard, digging her horned beak into the ground to get at the juicy root of the 'lion. Or perhaps, one will have gone to seed and she'll march up to it, turn her head to the side and bite its head right off, fuzzy stuff and all. Very few seeds escape on the breeze to make new plants. Maybe she's better off not coming home. There won't be many dandelions to eat this year. In two years, she's practically cleared the yard of them. I guess I've really made my decision. I just find it hard to go forward. I don't want to be the one who decides. But, I've taken this choice upon myself. I know now that I love that silly goose. It's funny how I didn't know that before. I know I can't sign her death warrant. Even less, can I sentence my husband to be her murderer. Still, I quail at the thought of still more debt, of squeezing still more blood from a stone. But at least, I won't have blood on my hands. Tomorrow Gertude Percivale Goose goes under the knife. Watch out cactus garden, Gerturde P. Goose is coming home.