Our house is the last house on the cul-de-sac, which is a fancy human way of saying, “dead end”. We live right next to the swamp and the woods. Dad calls the swamp, “Lake Jimborooni” because he puts “orooni” on the end of everything he says. (Like, “Maggie, do you want a treat-orooni?”) Dad thinks he’s talking Italian that way.
The swamp and the woods are considered a wildlife sanctuary. Every year, we get migratory geese from Canada in. They make a nest, lay some eggs, hide from the coyotes at night, and walk around like they own the place during the day. They get goose poop everywhere. The funny thing is, our neighbors two doors over used to feed the geese, and the geese showed their appreciation by blanketing their driveway in poop. Those neighbors have been gone for seven years, but the geese keep coming back to that same driveway. Drives the “new” owners nuts!
So I was looking out the dining room window surveying MY front lawn and MY cul-de-sac and MY swamp, when who comes goose-stepping out of the tall grass? Yup. The fat geese. I had something to say about it, namely, “Woof-woof-woof-woof-woof!” (Translation: “Get off my lawn, before I make an early Thanksgiving dinner out of you, and then stuff your feathers into Mom’s pillow!”) The geese waddled on, dipping their necks and, at last, sitting in a shallow puddle in the middle of the street.
Mom could see that I was doing a good job of guarding the house against the Killer Geese, and she gave me a nice bone for being such a good watchdog.
Ahhh….suddenly, I don’t care about the geese anymore!
Woof! Love, Maggie