Tag Archives: canada geese

A Goose Shits Every 17 Minutes and No Other Waterfowl Facts

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A goose shits every 17 minutes, thus giving credence to the phrase, “like shit through a goose” when speaking of the speed of a process or reaction.

Monday I wrote this post about my walk with Murphy in the hood. It was a gorgeous morning, and then it rained for almost two straight days.

I took pictures of the baby geese, the parents of whom rightly gave my dog a total rash for his insolence in wanting to place them all in his mouth.

Here’s a picture:

really? say that on the grass, geese. i will chase you back into the water and laugh when you can't hiss back on me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof.

really? say that on the grass, geese. i will chase you back into the water and laugh when you can’t hiss back on me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof.

As you can likely predict: Murphy really could not be less impressed by the geese. He didn’t think they were cute; he likely didn’t even think they were assholes, like I did. He didn’t think. That’s the brilliance of this animal: it’s all instinct and he’s not one tiny bit interested in how I feel about the geese. He just wants to put them all in his mouth. And the baby geese? They will remember him and his teeth because the memory is now imprinted.

Murph doesn’t care that I don’t have a gun or that they didn’t fall out of the sky. Almost every day, we see the geese at the ponds, and I can’t tell if he loves seeing them and tugging at the leash and wanting to put them in his mouth, or if he hates it. But I can tell you this: after each time we see them and we walk away, he does this, “that was cool, can we do it again?” face and rubs his nose into my left thigh. He’s the best dog ever.

So yeah: I hate the Canada geese here. We used to have lots of ducks, but they ran away because the geese are like the mafia, the Gambinos of geese.

Here is my one request: Don’t Feed the Geese, wherever WHEREVER you are. Here’s why as I just posted on my Facebook page:

a quick comment (lecture) about the adorability of baby geese and our responsibility as members of this planet: DON’T FEED THE GEESE. here’s why: geese are dumb-ass stupid birds. they don’t know the difference between me and Ronald McDonald. 

so, when say, Ronald feeds them, they expect me to feed them, which of course i won’t because i can’t stand them. why can’t i stand them? because aside from being stupider than hell, they are also nasty and aggressive and dangerous and they shit everywhere. 

a few years ago, a toddler in this neighborhood was disfigured and maimed (lost part of his tiny finger) because his mother looked away to get more freakin’ bread crumbs out of her bag. the goose was all, “faster! faster small Ronald McDonald!” and the toddler was all, “what’s up goose? i will try to put my fingers in your eyes…” and the goose was all, “i don’t smell no bread coming from you small Ronald McDonald, is your finger bread or are you trying to put your finger in my eyes?” and so the kid was bitten and forever maimed. 

so while i was taking these pictures the other day, i saw a well-intentioned, not-dressed as Ronald McDonald woman feed the geese COOKIES. she has dark hair, i have dark hair. she had no dog, i had a large dog. did the geese notice the difference between us? no. and if i didn’t have my dog, they would have gone after me for more cookies because they’re freaking idiots. they actually were chasing me, honking, “what’s up cookie-looking person? why do you have that small lion with you? do you have more cookies? because this grass and these worms and bugs, they suck… i will talk louder for you, and flap my wings so you see me and know that i am very hungry and that your small lion does not scare me, until it turns back on me, then i am very afraid and i know that if i had to, i would abandon my babies to save my own ass if your small lion came after me.” (because it did, and NO i didn’t let Murphy loose.) 

then people like me try to walk around the geese and we get hissed at and flapped at and freakin’ chased because even when i’m NOT in my Ronald McDonald suit, they think i’ve got bread in my bag. which i don’t, because not only do i not feed the geese, but i don’t have a bag with me. 

so i told the woman: don’t feed the geese. please stop. 

“but they’re so little and they need food.” she said. 

“no they’re not and that’s not food. it’s a cookie. before i start sounding all judgey and whatnot, would you feed a 2-week old infant that cookie? no, so don’t feed it to the geese for that reason alone. they’ve got all the grass and insects and their own defecation to eat all they want… and because you feed them, they think everyone has food and now they’re hassling me. a kid lost his finger because people think the geese don’t have enough to eat; they thought his finger was food because they’re stupider than a rock. they don’t need your cookies or bread. look at them: they’re the size of a smart car… they don’t need you to feed them.” 

so … please: DON’T FEED THE GEESE. they’re stupid and … well: wild animals. 

lecture done. 

>drops mic<

So… you wanna feed baby geese? Super. Guess what: they grow fast. In a week, they’ll be ugly as butt and then they’ll chase your ass all over the park flapping and honking,”Wait! Ronald! Don’t you have a cookie? Remember?! I’m that baby you fed a lasagna to last week… but I’m and growing and I’ll be as big as a calf in a month, but don’t you have a cookie, Ronald?”  and you’ll be HOSED because they will REMEMBER you and anyone who looks like you, aka all bipedal humans because of that imprinting. We basically train them to attack us. So do us all a favor: stop feeding the geese.

Thank you.

ps – maybe they’d shit less often if we didn’t feed them.

Murphy and Molly: A Walk in the ‘Hood

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I was sick all last week; didn’t go to the doctor’s until Wednesday, but I wasn’t sure what I had.

So of course, I felt the symptoms Sunday night and increasingly through Tuesday. My youngest, Thing 3, was home with me on Wednesday when I went to the doctor because his first course of antibiotics were overwhelmed by his infection and his fever returned. So at 1:15 on Wednesday, when my doctor asked me to say “ahhh” and then she looked down my throat, she didn’t need to swab me, I had strep throat. Thanks, T3.

The irony of all this was that for three days straight, my throat became increasingly worse: the tightening, the pain and the swelling were almost unbearable, yet I didn’t believe I was sick. I felt like my entire body was resting in one of those mechanical blood pressure machines. But my b/p was fine: 115/75, so I’m not sure what the sensation was, but I do know what I was doing emotionally, it was what I had done for most of my life whenever I’d get sick: keep it together and just keep going.

As a child, I didn’t have much opportunity to be sick; too much was going on already. I was sick a lot, in fact I had sore throats all the time. The yoga practitioner and chakra-aware part of me tells me that it’s my 6th chakra and that I was having issues with expressing myself. I felt I couldn’t express myself. I felt, intuitively, unsafe in expressing myself. More on that later, in my “fictional” novel to come one day this decade.

The amazing part of all this, was that when I went in to the doctor, and she didn’t need to swab me, that I was instantly relieved. The pain went away: INSTANTLY. I don’t know if I can make this clearer. When she said, “strep.” I felt no pain. No tension, no compression, no illness, no symptoms. All the sensations I’d been confronting, all the discomfort I’d been internalizing, all of it vanished. I don’t know how to explain that. Other than to say that my body / my illness had been affirmed. My body had been “heard.”

She explained to me how she knew (other than the obvious: she was a trained professional): a throat with an allergic reaction (pollen, etc.) looks sort of gray and slimy; a throat with a virus looks sort of pink and fleshy; and a throat with a strep infection looks red and beefy. Beefy. Like a sirloin on the hook, I guess. All I know is that my throat felt like it was hanging on a hook and had the shit kicked out of it by the Italian Stallion. My lymph nodes, all of it, were a giant swollen mess. I don’t have a normal 98.6˚ body temp, I’m more of a 97.8˚ girl, so when I hit 99˚+ I have a fever. Just before my appointment, I had 100.8˚, so we were on.

But this post so far, has nothing to do with what I saw this morning on my first walk with The Murph in a week. A walk we’d been unable to take because I’d been so sick. I will share those images and moments with you now, because it’s far more interesting than my boring old throat and amazing discovery about my health being affirmed once I was diagnosed.

I am the sole walker of the dog here, other than my beloved, who takes him out at night for a quick stroll to the neighborhood fire hydrant for Murphy’s nightly sniff and pee. Today, the weather is unseasonably cool (it’s 50˚ in May in D.C.!) and everything with roots is verdant and healthy and happy. But first, I want to show you my breakfast.

i have been having poached eggs lately with a slice of artisan garlic bread. the eggs have been quite expressive lately. today, they were decidely confused.

i have been having poached eggs lately with a slice of artisan garlic bread. the eggs have been quite expressive since i’ve taken the time to notice them. today, they were decidely confused. last week, my egg winked at me… see the next picture.

sassy egg. i believe it's flirting with me.

sassy egg. i believe it’s flirting with me.

I think I will do a whole series on my expressive poached eggs. I believe it’s the Fiesta Ware that makes it more … “American.”

Ok… enough! Here’s what we saw today:

canada geese and their babies.

Canada geese and their babies.

And then those geese thought they were all badasses when we walked away, so Murphy (being massive and toothed and genetically engineered to want geese in his mouth) said, “I don’t think so…”

see daddy goose getting all fresh with my camera? he's all hiss / sip / hiss / sip...

see daddy goose getting all fresh with my camera? he’s all hiss / sip / hiss / sip… and that baby goose on the right looks like he’s saying “yeah! what daddy said. nyah.”

(I’ll get to Murphy telling them off in a second — one more shot of those cute-for-now baby geese)

aren't they precious? next week they'll be gangly and ugly and still stupid, but not nearly as endearing.

aren’t they precious? next week they’ll be gangly and ugly and still stupid, but not nearly as endearing. trust me: those geese grow up to be dicks. they’re all like: “we don’t see you. do you have bread?” me: “no bread, but i do have a dog that i will let kick your ass if you snap at me again.” (They disfigured a toddler, maimed him actually because he got too close, took part of his finger clean off.)

So then daddy goose gives Murph some backhiss, and mother goose is saying, “You tell ’em Percival,” and Murphy’s all like, “Percival?” That’s so STUPID. WOOF YOU! STUPID WOOFERS!” His fur didn’t even get puffy; he hates the geese. I think.

really? say that on the grass, geese. i will chase you back into the water and laugh when you can't hiss back on me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof.

“Oh, really?! I don’t think so. Say that on the grass, geese. Then I will chase you all back into the water and I will laugh when you can not hiss back at me me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof. stupid geese. These are my teeth.”

The best part of all this is that the geese have no clue I’m holding back this 83# monster because I don’t want him to kill anything. They think he’s afraid of them (or I think they think that, which is really odd because I have better things to think about). So when they start to get all chest-puffy with him, I let him do a two-step tug on me toward them and they comPLETEly freak out, start honking and flapping and generally fall apart emotionally and Murphy does this thing, it’s so funny, it’s like he says, “Yeah. I thought so. Losers.”

I’d decided we’d made enough of an imprint on those babies to leave us alone in the coming months. When I make the fatal error of going for a run without my trusty Golden, those geese will chase me and freakin’ snap at me. Not so much with Mr. Fluffyface, they mind him quite well. Thank you, Darwin.

Next, we saw our favorite old truck.

isn't it cute? i've never seen it move. but someone drives it because... well, it's clean.

isn’t it cute? i’ve never seen it move. but someone drives it because… well, it’s clean.

Then after that, there’s this house across the street from that truck with an AMAZING peony garden. If I were half as impulsive as I thought I was, they’d all be cut down and in a vase in my kitchen enveloping my home with their amazing scent.

see? oy.

see? oy.

I ventured closer and took a whiff of this bunch:

it was glorious. I can't wait for my peonies to open soon. they're in the shade, so it takes them a little longer.

it was glorious. the police found me in them thirty minutes later. I can’t wait for my peonies to open soon. they’re in the shade, so it takes them a little longer.

Once I woke up and was released on my own recognizance, we started back home and just when I thought I’d seen enough beauty for the morning, THIS hit me:

serious? it's out of focus a bit because the energy coming off the combination was too much to handle, even for my schmaltzy iPhone 5 camera (which is pretty good, by the way).

serious? it’s out of focus a bit because the energy coming off the combination was too much to handle, even for my schmaltzy iPhone 5 camera (which is pretty good, by the way). no, it was breezy. rain’s coming in.

So … that was it. It was just boring old boring old when we walked home and I released Murphy to his own backyard:

we like it here.

we like it here.

The good news is that the antibiotics are working and I don’t need to work so hard to keep it together, man. I was astounded by that release though.

Oh, and I’m over here today too at Peevish Penman doing everything I can to offend a reader enough to leave a comment. 🙂 (hint, hint.)

Thank you.