Francis Meyrick

Of Helicopters and Humans (33)

A Mental Midget (4) – “Moggy and the Goose”

Sooner or later, if you pursue a career in aviation, especially if you venture into the rotary world, with lots and lots of off-site landings, I can guarantee you will encounter all sorts of critters. I urge you to exercise extreme caution. These encounters can have all kinds of slithery consequences.
Ask any actor, however struggling and hungry. The word around the theatrical world is to be very careful fooling around with animals, especially on live television. Ignoring this sage advice, all sorts of so-called prominent TV personalities (i.e. Yakking Heads) have come to sticky ends. They have unexpectedly had their hair pulled, they have been spat at, peed on, barfed at, and one poor fellow got bitten (on live TV) by the biggest Copperhead rattlesnake these two fully baked rednecks had ever caught.
So what do you do when you catch a record Copperhead rattlesnake? Why, you drag him into a Television Studio in a box. And when the host says: “Can we see him?” You open the box. And when the really, really pissed orf Copperhead peeps out and sees the Host, well, he sees things differently. Dammit, HE is a snake. A mean snake. He was just out and about, minding his own business, thinking about lunch (a tasty rodent would do nicely, thank you) and along come these two sadists and chucked him in a box! DO NOT point at that Copperhead and laugh: “That’s the biggest rattle snake I’ve ever seen, HA-HA!!” ‘Cos if you DO, he is gonna take UMBRAGE. And… (sirens & white coats)… off to the E.R. you jolly well go. Duh…

Some mothers do have ’em…

Never, ever, underestimate the intelligence of an animal. Here, let me explain to you the origins of my honorary induction into the “Untouchables ” cast. I was once drinking in a bar in Calcutta I think it was, India anyway, and I don’t quite remember how I got there. I know I’d gotten in trouble again, terminated from flying this rattletrap Bell 222, all over nothing. I’d been staying at this hotel, flying four days on and three days off, and one night, I’d gone down to Reception, and asked this funny dressed Bell Boy (in fancy dress) down in the Lobby to order me a Pepperoni Pizza. I then gave him ten dollars, and patted him on the turban. Hell, I even complimented on how cute he looked. Only he wasn’t the Bell Boy. He was the local Maha… Maha… Mahajaradja something, and apparently they don’t do pizzas. And he was all offended, and the Hotel asked me to leave. And then I got fired. For laughing my ass off when I found out about my mistake. I swear. But there you go. So I was in this bar, drowning my guilt, and in comes this little Untouchable guy. Now the Untouchables, note, are the lowest caste in India. Everybody looks down on them, and they look up at everybody else. All day long. It’s got to be hard work. Anyway, he looked like he was down on his luck. He was trying to count out enough Rupees for a beer, so, what the heck, I bought him one. I tend to feel sorry for people, and that’s only fair, because, after all, a lot of people feel sorry for me. His face lit up, and soon we were chat-chatting away. I learned a whole lot about India and being Untouchable from this guy. Anyway, by and by, he gets this crafty look in his eyes, and he whispers in my ear: “My crazy Irish Untouchable friend, I like you! You bet with me, I make us both many money!”

With that, he addresses the whole bar. And he says: “My good people! I offer every man here a wager! One thousand Rupees! Double or nothink! I can make an elephant jump off the ground with all four feet!”
Everybody looked at him. “Nay-nay-nay-nay.” Lots of wise Indian head shaking. Apparently, you can’t make an elephant jump off the ground with all four feet. It can’t be done. A thousand Rupees? That seemed like a crazy bet. Still… Everybody bet against the little Untouchable. On a hunch, I bet two thousand on his side. The Irish Untouchable backing the Indian one. Then we all got up, and followed him out to a large rice paddy. We walked over to this humongous, big grey elephant. I noticed that, on the way, my little Untouchable buddy had picked up this vicious looking big stick. I wondered what it was for. Odd. Well, with all the wise Indians standing around, who had all betted a thousand rupees each against him, he walks right behind the elephant, and picks up the elephant’s tail, and ties it out of the way. Then he swings that big stick a hard as he possibly can, and simply NAILS that dog gun elephant right in the NUTS. There was this fantastic sound, a real blaring, high pitched, quavering elephant expression of extreme surprise and unhappiness, and, sure enough, the elephant came off the ground with all four feet! Out-standing! I had just won two thousand Rupees! Cool.

So back to the bar we went . Well, a month later, I was still sitting at that bar, on account of another fact. I couldn’t find a new helicopter flying job. I guess word had gotten around I couldn’t tell a Bell Boy from the local Maha Radjhi. I was politically incorrect. Again. It seems that made them nervous. But I had gotten to know the bar regulars real well. And one day, in walks my little Untouchable Buddy again.
I guess he was down on his luck again. I saw him fumbling for loose change for a beer anyway. I bought him one, and he agreed just a little too easily. I started to wonder suspiciously if I had been taken for a (rickshaw) ride, but before that sneaking suspicion could morph into a greater ugliness, he smiled his winning smile, and said: “My crazy Irish Untouchable friend, I like you! You bet with me, I make us both many money!”

With that, he addresses the whole bar. And he says: “My good people! I offer every man here a wager! One thousand Rupees! Double or nothink! I can make an elephant shake his head from side-to-side!”
Everybody looked at him. “Nay-nay-nay-nay.” Lots of wise Indian head shaking. Apparently, you can’t make an elephant shake his head from side-to-side. It can’t be done. A thousand Rupees? That seemed like a crazy bet. Still… Everybody bet against the little Untouchable. On a hunch, I bet my last three thousand on his side. The Irish Untouchable backing the Indian one. Then we all got up, and followed him out to the same large rice paddy. We walked over to the very same, humongous, big grey elephant. I noticed that, on the way, my little Untouchable buddy had picked up the same vicious looking big stick. I wondered what it was for. Odd. Well, with all the wise Indians standing around, who had all betted a thousand rupees each against him, he walks right in front of the elephant, and gets right in the elephant’s face. Then he twirls that big stick around in an ominous manner, and says to the elephant:
“YOU REMEMBER ME…? “
The elephant nodded, sadly. Elephants are smart.
“YOU WANT ANOTHER WHACK ON THE NUTS WITH THIS HERE STICK…??”
And the elephant… firmly shook his head. Left-right-left. NO, Sir. No, thank you.
Absolutely not.

All the other Indians were dumbfounded. Jaws hanging open. Eyes out on sticks. A miracle.
Out-standing! I had just won three thousand Rupees! Cool.
And back to bar we went. I was to remember that elephant, many years later. The levitation part. As you shall see in another story.

* * * * *

But first, I must now make mention of the famous Goose from Sabine Pass. And the other famous, unforgettable goose that belonged to… my wife.
The Sabine Pass Goose has gone in History. If you have ever worked in the Gulf, or if you have a buddy who has worked in the Gulf, if you haven’t heard of the Sabine Pass goose, you must be tea-total. Many a bar has heard the story of the Sabine Pass goose. His name was Brutus. I don’t know who named him Brutus. It doesn’t seem awfully flattering for a goose. But then again, he was a really BIG goose. The first time I met Brutus, I was kind of awed. It was just before dawn, all misty and wet, and I was walking (or rather, limply staggering) out to do my pre-flight. I was three quarters asleep. Well, out of the darkness, out of the shadows, silently, fluidly, without warning, this gigantic muddy white creature hove into sight. And firmly barred my way. Instantly awake (eyes bulging) I hurriedly stepped back. Brutus advanced. I retreated. Brutus advanced some more. Head down. Quickly I stepped to one side. I was in HIS way. Brutus, with a sideways look at me (in which I detected supreme condescension) (“what an UGLY goose that sleepy creature is…”) swept magnificently by. Having rendered due obeisance to the Goose, having deferentially made way as it were, I think my existence was graciously tolerated. I had no further trouble with Brutus. You never knew when his Lordship would put in an appearance. It was as if the pre-dawn row of silent helicopters was a favorite haunt, because he was never far away. As long as you didn’t piss orf the Goose, you were okay. Show some respect, and he remembered you. (Cowering…)

Well…

Along comes… I’ll call him Bill. Most of us… we didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the Goose. Call us cowards if you like. We just passed the word along. Don’t screw with the Goose. Make way for the Goose. Show some respect. It’s HIS back yard. Ostensibly, he belonged to the farmer next door, where he got lots of respect from a dozen (exhausted) Lady Geese. But Brutus… didn’t differentiate. I think that was the problem. He expected ALL creatures to show him mucho respect, or else…
And then there was Bill. Older gentleman. Laid-back Bill. Bill, “don’t-tread-on-me” and “I don’t-give-a-rat’s ass” Bill. Texan. Long-horrrrrrn. Confederate Flag flying Bill. You know the type. Upon being informed of the real life pecking order out on the ramp at Sabine Pass, Bill said a word which is not polite, and unprintable in such a clean, unblemished scribe as this. The word implied that the status quo, as we saw it, was for the birds. Or the geese, depending on your point of view. But it wasn’t for Bill. Basically, he wasn’t going to have no bleeding, ‘effing mere GOOSE tell HIM where HE would respectfully tread in the misty early morning twilight, before the Sabine dawn.

History records that the first meeting between Brutus and Bill was unobserved by any independent parties. So nobody knows how Brutus saw the whole thing. I have a sneaking suspicion laid back Bill tried to kick the Goose. But we know exactly how Bill saw it, from his point of view. The door to the crew room explosively burst open, and laid-back Bill positively ERUPTED through it. Slamming the door shut, and locking it, he turned to the rest of us, white as a ghost, and blurted out: “Christ! There’s a HUMONGOUS GOOSE LOOSE out there!” The rest of us, unruffled, reclining comfortably, slurping coffee, and/or slowly waking up, replied politely, that he must have just met Brutus. Bill, at the opposite end of ‘unruffled’, proceeded to give his estimate of the size of ‘that Goose’. Wing tip to wing tip. Six feet, I think Bill said. And four foot high. And very, very ANGRY.
“You must have pissed him orf”, we said.
“NO, HE JUST ATTACKED ME!”, complained laid-back Bill. He was very unhappy about the loose Goose.
“All you have to do is show him some respect”, we said.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT BEAK IS A FOOT LONG! THOSE EYES! THAT GOOSE IS TOTALLY PSYCHOTIC!”
The stage was set up. The rest of us would go about our business in peace, and mentally doff our caps to Brutus. We would politely step out of his way, and refrain from staring. Brutus would stride majestically by, not deigning these (really ugly) two-legged geese with so much as a curt look. Not his type.
But Bill and Brutus… World War Three in Sabine Pass. Unlimited mutual hate and loathing. Unrestricted warfare. It developed into a game of low cunning. Who could outsmart who. Brutus would hide in the most far out places, unseen, and ignore all comers. Until Laid-back Bill passed by. Then the Goose, six foot from wing tip to wing tip, with his foot long beak, (and the psychotic eyes), would burst out of his hiding place, hissing and flapping, and frontally attack poor Bill. And Bill would run like hell, burst into the pilots’ crew room, slam the door, gasping, and say:
“THAT DAMN GOOSE JUST ATTACKED ME!”
And we would say: “You must have upset him!” But Bill would get all huffy, and deny all wrong doing.
Time went by, and there was no sign of improvement in the Brutus & Bill duet. It only got worse. Bill took to sneaking around only if he was armed with a golf putter. He would peer cautiously around doors and buildings, and advance warily, holding the putter at the ready over his head. The Goose, having received a few whacks, far from retiring, only took to upping the ante, and made it a life mission and purpose to attack laid back Bill at the most inconvenient moments. Bill would lay down his putter, maybe to re-fuel his aircraft, and at that precise moment, Brutus would catapult out of the Darkness, his one foot beak aimed square at Bill’s nuts. Apparently you don’t want to get violently stabbed in the nuts by a Goose. Because there was Bill, on more than one occasion, rolling on the ground, screaming
“GET HIM OFF ME!!! GET HIM OFF ME!!”
…with Brutus the Goose on top, pecking and hissing and stomping, wings flapping, and generally executing a sustained and mighty assault.

We all kind of got used to seeing laid back Bill cautiously imitating a Red Indian, and furtively sneaking around the various buildings and hangars. Unaware of the Goose, in unmistakable Red Indian Goose stealth mode, behind him, encircling the same building, taking care to just stay out of sight. Until the right moment.

Oh! There’s Bill….! Peering around the corner. Putter strike ready above his head….
Oh! There’s Brutus…! Peering around the rearward corner. Foot long beak at the ready, and mean little psychotic eyes burning hellfire into Bill’s back…

Cool. Situation normal.

(It’s gonna be a great day…)

The rumors you will hear about this, handed down to young pilots to this very day, will include lurid tales of the creative cruelty of Bill’s fellow pilots. These stories are totally fabricated. I was there. We never laughed at Bill. Much. And although it is true that we hung a few framed Goose pictures around the place, we didn’t mean anything by it. Much. Okay, I did put plastic goose soap dispensers in all the toilets. And admittedly, there was that occasion when Bill put his hand in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a fluffy, cuddly Goose. And went ape shit. (I can’t really say ‘Goose shit’, can I?)

But this was just minor mischief. It is also mostly totally untrue that we would wind up Bill’s customers. Why would we do that? You will hear (true!) stories that the customers were alarmed to see their pilot come slinking out of the building, with a haunted-crazed expression, totally ignoring them, with a golf putter held high above his head. Peering intently into the darkness. With saliva trickling nervously down his chin. For some reason, the passengers didn’t quite understand that. It is said (untrue) (well…) that some crazy Irish pilot told them that Bill was a diagnosed schizophrenic, with uncontrollable Transvestite impulses, and that the best thing was just to ignore him. Especially if he started working the lipstick or babbling in Hindu. Or chanting deliriously in Urdu.

I don’t think I said that. Oh, maybe I did. I didn’t mean any harm, though. We were all very upset when we heard that babbling Bill had been rushed off for psychiatric evaluation. Something to do with him refusing to leave his putter behind on the ground. He insisted on having it immediately ready and available in the cockpit. And apparently he talked incessantly during every flight about smiting Brutus, the Goose. It upset the passengers.

The end of the story was that the Head Shed sent down some very important people. And they asked lots of questions. And they gave me lots of funny looks. And then they went to the farmer. And the farmer erected a wire fence. And that was the end of the love story of Brutus and Bill. It was a sad day for all of us. Especially Brutus. He could often be seen, in the early pre-dawn hours, pacing mournfully along the wrong side of the fence, peering through, searching for his buddy with the putter. Oh, to be separated so cruelly from the true Love-Hate of his Life…

Now you might think I’m making this up. Truthfully, I’m not. 99% of it is TRUE. Honestly. Can you make this stuff up? Ask the wrinkled old-timers. They’ll tell you. Ask T.C. He was there. He’ll tell you…

…all about the Sabine Pass Goose named Brutus.

* * * * *

So, then, years later, Karma being Karma, (dammit), there came a strange visitation upon me. My (two) esteemed regular readers (Dotty went on the drink – again) will be familiar with the details of my 87th reincarnation. The Penguin affair. Just in case you missed it, here’s the link.

The point I’m trying to make is that we little Humans, gifted with only the smallest of minds, and pitifully brief Life Spans, must meditate frequently on the dire implications of our Actions. Actions have consequences. However hard I try, with my very limited intelligence, I have trouble absorbing this knowledge. I’m not very humble. I’m also kind of mischievous. Subversive. I confess: I’m not above stirring the pot, and challenging sacred cows head on. I like to do it MY way. If you’ve read my Nigger Story (here’s the link) I’m sure you know what I mean. Thus, perhaps, my actions involving Brutus the Goose, and babbling Bill, (not to mention the plastic goose soap dispensers, and the fluffy goose toy in Bill’s jacket pocket), brought down upon me the following events…

* * * * *

My wife likes to rescue extremely sick animals. And nurse them lovingly and patiently back to health. In fact, in a candid moment, some twenty years into our marriage, she once calmly stated that her propensity to hurry to the rescue of sick animals was the prime reason why she married me in the first place. And as I stared at her, slightly dumbfounded (a state I often find myself in with this Scottish lady) she added, perfectly sincerely, that the task had not quite gone to plan, and that the venture, was, in truth, still very much “a work in progress”. (???)
I could be sensitive, you know…
(but I’m not. Not after twenty years of marriage)

Because of this Mother-Theresa-for-critters propensity on her part, I never know what pathetic new creature-arrival will greet me when I return home from work. I have been joyously (or not) barked at, miaowed at, growled at, hissed at, bleated at, neighed at, honked at, and spat at. It’s not easy. I once put my motorcycle helmet on (I needed a ride, so bad) and this water unexpectedly poured down my face. What!? Funny smelling water…?? Oh, just Grrrrreat. Outstanding. The latest rescued puppy has just gone and… peed in my crash hat. I live in terror that she’ll rescue an Alpaca. Or a bloody big heavy shitter woolly Lama.
Stay AWAY from my motorcycle helmet!
The feed bill…

Thus the day came, that I called home dutifully from a remote helicopter base somewhere on planet Earth, and I detected a kind of sigh in her voice. Sure enough, the following words hit me like a sledge hammer.
“Errr… We have a new arrival.”
Me: “WHAT!?”
Her: “Yes… some people knocked on the door with him… and I really couldn’t refuse.”
Me: “WHAT-IS-IT…???”
My (tiny) mind reeled.
(WHERE did I leave my helmet…?)
Whatever it was, it had better not be huge, hungry, aggressive, mean, or prone to spitting. Because I had been through this routine so many times before. 1. They all love Mama. 2. They all hate interloper Papa. 3. Papa gets to pay the feed and vet’s bills. 4. Mama tells Papa to get over it, and that “they are all God’s creatures, you know…” and, finally, 5) Papa meekly gives in.
So: “WHAT-IS-IT…??”
Her: “it’s a GOOSE…”
Me: (sigh of relief) “Oh, that’s okay then. “
We had lots of chickens. And Guinea Fowl. Little Bantam chickens. And even a love sick pigeon. Called Paloma. With a crush on a coldly indifferent Bantam named Spangle. Paloma & Spangle – a Love Story.
There was a silence on the phone. Something in the silence alarmed me.
Me: “IS THERE MORE TO THIS STORY…??”
Her: “Well…”
Me: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH…!!! WHAT-IS-THE-MATTER-WITH-THE-GOOSE…???”
Her: “Well…”
Me: “WELL WHAT…??”
Her: “He’s psychotic…”
Me: “YOU JUST RESCUED A PSYCHOTIC GOOSE…???”
It emerged that some people had knocked on our front door with this sad Goose-in-a-box. He had been taken as a baby Goose, separated cruelly from his fellow geese siblings, and plopped into a suburban back garden. As somebody’s warped idea of a pet. A walking, honking version of a grass eating garden gnome. In this sad and lonely manner, the goose had grown up, accustomed only to seeing the occasional human being. No other geese. Indeed, I think later events were to show how he had even forgotten what other geese looked like. A sad goose, indeed. Then he discovered hormones. The urge to procreate. So he took to ferociously, wings flapping, attacking the occasional human being. ‘Cos he wanted to fu-fu-ffff… procreate. Think about it. He’d been on his own so long. He was a very confused goose. But the objects of his passion didn’t understand that. So they said he was a psychotic goose. Only he wasn’t. Mama said so. Mama knows about these things. He was just confused. Like me.

In this manner… Kenya the Goose came into our lives. Karma at work, no doubt. I bow my head. I suspect Kenya arrived so I could learn more about the Harmony of Life. So I, ignoble, mischief making wretch, could appreciate things from the point of view of… a confused Goose. The Great Cosmic Kindness, that surrounds all us creatures, bestowed upon me the opportunity to ripen in perhaps a small modicum of elementary wisdom. Compassion, even. Me and the Goose. Pay-back for stirring the sh… manure, between Brutus and Bill.

I came home after a week’s flying, causing mischief and sowing confusion in the Gulf of Mexico, (ten years plus so far), and I was told that Kenya was in the back garden, seemingly getting on well with the chickens, the Bantams, the lone lover Pigeon, the Guinea Fowl, the dogs, the cats, the donkeys, the goats, and the squirrels. And how, I enquired anxiously, was he getting on with Mama? Oh, just fine, she said. “He seems to like me”, she added. I wasn’t surprised. Everybody liked Mama. It was ME they had their doubts about.

“You should go meet him”, she said, encouragingly. I had my misgivings. Vaguely, I had this feeling of foreboding. Mama was always way ahead of me in the arena of Personal Harmony with Nature & Critters. I lagged (far) behind. I was never quite sure why. I wonder often if animals are much more intuitively in tune with the Forces of Nature. Maybe they just know. Maybe they sense our auras. That of my wife, bright and golden, that of me, dark and red-tinged? I don’t know (much), but I’m willing to… Learn? Step out, go meet the psychotic Goose?

It didn’t take long. About forty-five seconds or so. Papa was already flying back in through the back door, in a hurried, flustered manner, quickly shutting the door, bolting it, and announcing, breathlessly:

“THAT DAMN GOOSE JUST ATTACKED ME!”

And (Karma) (shit!) SHE said, quietly and wisely: “You must have upset him!” (where did I hear that before?) But I got all huffy, and denied all wrong doing. It’s ALL the goose’s fault.

What to do? Calmly, my wife bade me accompany her out the door, and stay, demurely, non-threateningly, by her side. I felt like a penitent. Head bowed. Karma was watching. Was I learning? Did I remember Brutus & Bill? Sure. I’m sorry, Brutus. I’m sorry, Bill. I’ll never -ever- stir the pot with a dumb critter again. Not even with you, Bill.

We were now ten feet away from this ferocious looking, evil, psychotic beast. Wings extended (six foot, wing tip to wing tip), this gargantuan, wicked looking beak (foot long, at least) and these horrible, rolling eyes. Indubitably, a psychotic goose on the loose. Aboot our hoose.
It happened in an instant. He rolled his eyes at Mama. Mama good. He loved Mama. He rolled his eyes at me. Papa no good. He hated Papa. ATTACK PAPA! Goose head down!

CHAAAARRRRRGE…!

(Papa was already flying back in through the back door, in a hurried, flustered manner, quickly shutting the door, bolting it, and announcing, breathlessly, from within those sheltered walls:

“I HATE THAT DAMN GOOSE… !”

(Sigh)

We let a few days go by, and, at the urging of Mama, this penitent sinner agreed, reluctantly, to try once more to discover Inner Peace and Harmony, and Communion with the Great Cosmic Kindness. Hold hands and hum Kum-Ba-Ya. And friendship (heck, some tolerance, even) between him and the loose goose. I’d do anything for that little woman. Being the sick animal I am, nursed along for twenty years by this extraordinarily warm hearted little lady, I know I can never repay her all the kindnesses. So I try not to kick the proverbial goose loose. I try, vainly, to love even the psychotic goose. Heck, that could be ME, in my next reincarnation.
With my luck…

“Talk to him, nicely…!”.

She said it easily, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to strike up a bonhomie with this GOOSE rolling his eyes at you.

“Hello, Kenya…” I said, feebly. Feeling for all the world like a gibbering idiot.

Talking to a goose. (If Bill could see this…) But Kenya was having none of it. Palm leaf be damned. The gentle melody of Kum-Ba-Ya be damned. The goose head was going down. And down. The neck was stretching out. The eyes were taking on that Tyrannosaurus -Rex-with-a- sore-tooth ugly glint. He rolled his eyes at Mama. Mama good. He loved Mama. He rolled his eyes at me. Papa no good. He hated Papa.

ATTACK PAPA! Goose head down! CHAAAARRRRRGE…!

(Papa was already flying back in through the back door, in a hurried, flustered manner, quickly shutting the door, bolting it, and announcing, breathlessly, from within those sheltered walls:

“I HATE THAT DAMN GOOSE… !”

And so on, and so forth. Karma sighed. The Great Cosmic Kindness shook his (her? It’s?) head, and I took to firmly avoiding the loose goose. The irony was not lost on me. I couldn’t make up for my past misdeeds. Here was a needy goose sent by Fate to me, to act as my guide and teacher to greater Compassion, and all I wanted to do was KILL THE BLOODY THING. I was a lost cause.

I would watch Mama and Kenya through the kitchen windows. Going for a walk together, across the fields. He, loyally, like a puppy dog, waddling along behind the love of his life. I knew just how he felt. If he got tired, he would start lagging behind. And Mama would turn around, and say: “Kenya? Are you getting tired?” And Kenya would make a sad sort of honking noise. And Mama would say: “Come on, then!” And Kenya the goose would jump into Mama’s arms. And they would finish the walk, with a Scottish lassy lost in Lousiana, and a psychotic goose, happily tucked under Mama’s right arm, enjoying his new home. Very strange. He would follow her to the mail box. He would follow her to feed the horses. He was, for all the world to see, totally devoted to Mama.

Months went by. I had not entirely given up. I had noticed Kenya trying to get off with the chickens. It was a step forwards. At least he wasn’t trying to hump ME all the time. Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at it. The chickens were much quicker, and they easily circumnavigated the randy goose. Initially they would run a mile, squawking blue murder. After a while, however, once the chickens figured how easy it was to dodge Fat Boy Romeo, they merely retreated three or four feet. Then, just to show their contempt, they would go straight back to pecking the ground. Waddle Ass with the limp dick did not merit more of a berth than that.

Of course, I ended up feeling sorry for Kenya. Maybe I felt I still owed Karma some dutiful obeisance. Or so it seemed to me. Maybe it was just a male-to-male thing. I wondered if he would enjoy the company of some Lady Geese. After some contemplation, I decided it was a brilliant idea. I put it to Mama. For some reason (girls can be so slow) she looked kind of dubious. But I was in full flow of enthusiasm. At some level, I had these idealistic vision of Kenya with two lovely Goose ladies, whooping it up, and enjoying a blissful life. And maybe, just maybe, in my next reincarnation, I could be allowed to skip the educational step of coming back as an unloved, loose goose. Maybe. So, I ignored Mama’s hesitation. She seemed to think Kenya might not be able to handle two demanding women. “Nonsense”, spoke I, the knowledgeable male. “Of course he can handle it!” Well, maybe I should have listened to Mama.

Off I went, in the full flow of a warm male hormonal idealism, and obtained TWO lady Geese. I could only carry them one at a time in a cage, so I arrived home with the first one, and I couldn’t wait to unite the happy couple. I walked over to the gate, and Kenya immediately spotted his new bride. His reaction was strange. Far from being deliriously happy, (and grateful) he raced into his cage, and cowered in the furthest corner. He would have slammed and bolted the door, I’m sure, if his house had been so equipped. Very odd. Still, with my confidence still flourishing, I opened the cage and let Madam Number One out. We were soon to name her “Kubota” on account of her bright orange bill. That perfectly matched our new Kubota tractor. That she later learned to voluptuously shit all over. Kubota at least had the right idea. Upset no doubt by her recent journey, and the ordeal of having been plucked away from her friends, she spied a fine Gander, and raced over to his protective embrace. Kenya seemed horrified. As Kubota flew in his door, Kenya departed, OVER THE TOP of his bewildered bride. Then he ran and hid behind some bushes. Peeking out, nervously, for the rest of the day at Kubota, who was nervously peeking out of the dubious protection of Kenya’s house. Not good. Bad start.

I was rather thoughtful when I returned with the second lady goose, soon to be named “Honda”. For some entirely logical reason. Soon we had two frantic incomer geese chasing an even more frantic resident Gander, round and round the house and garden. Kenya, raised alone in a suburban back garden, was clearly a very confused goose.

The weeks went by. Kenya had been (unsuccessfully) pursuing the chickens again, but at least seemed to be sidling up now and then behind the heavenly duo, Kubota & Honda. He was thinking about it.
Well… when he finally tried, the girls were very cooperative. They stood or crouched perfectly still, but Kenya still just could NOT hack it. He would fall off over their left shoulder. He would fall off over their right shoulder. He would fall off over the heads. He would fall off backwards. Hopeless. All my fine match making plans were for naught. Kenya, without a doubt, was the clumsiest creature in the whole yard. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get his end away, and do his thing, it was just that he kept missing by a mile.

In the end, the girls just gave up, and started doing it by themselves. So now we still had a loner psycho gander-goose, and two lesbian lover geese. Who went at it all day long. Noisily.
Heck, I told my wife. And Karma. Dammit, I tried.

Where or how I shall be reincarnated next, I have no idea. It won’t be good. I shall probably be a randy cockroach with permanent erectile dysfunction, born on a Taiwanese tuna boat. With a new weekend home in those nice nets on the stern. The ones with all the tasty bits of fish in them. Until one day…

“LET GO…!!”
(Clang! Wheee-eeee-eeeeeeee—-SPLASH!)
(Huh!?)

But if I’m brought back as a goose, I just hope I can find a decent NOOSE.

I just don’t fancy being a psychotic goose, loose, around the hoose.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 17, 2014, 9:27 am