The Mean Goose

Event Date: 1979–1983 Drafted: 2025-11-23

Every farm has one. The tyrant goose.

Ours was a grand old gander — white, loud, and irritable. His orange beak was like a warning sign, and his eye had that sharp, prehistoric glint that said: I survived the dinosaurs; I can survive you.

We called him “Grandpa Goose.” It wasn’t affectionate. It was respectful fear.

He patrolled the yard like a self-appointed sheriff, flapping his wings with that terrifying WHUMP-WHUMP sound that meant trouble. If you ran? He chased. If you turned your back? He bit.

I learned a series of practical rules — the physics of goose encounters: • Rule 1: Maintain eye contact. • Rule 2: Move slowly. • Rule 3: Never, under any circumstance, run. • Rule 4: Keep a five-gallon bucket nearby as a shield. • Rule 5: Bravery is relative — and survival is an art.

Helen and I would test our courage by trying to sneak past him on the way to the playpen. Sometimes we succeeded. Sometimes we retreated. Sometimes he won.

But here’s the thing I understand only now: That goose taught us boundaries, bravery, timing, patience. Kids raised around animals learn a certain physical wisdom — how bodies move, how danger signals work, how to read the mood of another creature.

Grandpa Goose might have been a menace, but he also shaped us. He pushed us toward self-reliance. He taught us the geometry of escape routes. And he kept the yard lively in a way only a slightly deranged goose can.