The drunk goose massacree

While sitting up on top of the boat, drinking my drink of choice -- Captain Morgan`s on ice with a twist -- two Canadian Geese came swimming up to the boat, looking for handouts. I retrieved some bread from the galley -- because geese generally prefer it over marshmallows -- went back up on top, and began tossing small chunks to the shameless little feather-necked beggars.

Now, anyone with a good eye can tell when a goose is thirsty. It became obvious after a few pieces of bread had disappeared down those gullets that these two would really appreciate something to wash the dry crusts down. Hell, I`ve been there, who hasn`t?

I didn`t have much to offer, but I did have my bottle o` The Cap`n, and being an optimist, it was more than half-full. I`m also a sharing, sympathetic sort, and a bird-lover besides, so I began soaking the bread crusts in good spiced rum, and tossing them over the side of the boat. Kept a good eye out for the water patrol, of course -- lake cops generally frown on this sort of thing.

For those of you who don`t already know, geese are mean drunks. Belligerent. Noisy. It`s not pretty. Poor sharers, too, greedy and self-centered. Get a few drinks in them, and you can really start to read the personality of a goose. I began to think that perhaps these geese were Irish, and only claimed Canadian heritage.

I didn`t have any bar snacks to offer, peanuts or popcorn or anything like that. In truth, I did have some pickled eggs, but I decided no, it would not be socially appropriate. These were geese, after all. Although the birds themselves were pretty well hammered at this point, as a sensitive host I decided that giving pickled bird eggs to pickled geese would just be in poor taste -- however humorously ironic that might seem to you and me.

Besides, it was obvious that these two just wanted to drink. The more rum-soaked bread I gave them, the more they became as loose as their axiomatic namesakes.

The fine afternoon ended as all fine afternoons must. When it was time to call it a day, we sailed off toward the dock. And the well-greased geese? They sailed off to the south.

By southwest.

By north, by east, by northwest, by south, by northsouth.

OK, this story is not entirely true. I know when a goose has had enough. After they began picking fights with passing jetskis, I put them both on the wagon. Which should have been preferable, from their perspective, to being put on the grill.

Internally basted or not.

Ted Thompson is a freelance writer (available for hire) living in Harrison, Arkansas More of his works can be seen at his website http://www.phfft.com

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