Story by Donald B. Louria, MD

More than a decade ago, my wife Barbara and I bought a wonderful five-acre property on a small mountain. Included is a one-acre pond that is the home of a school of large-mouth bass. When it gets reasonably warm and the fish come to the surface, I feed them trout food and we have become friends.

My son and grandchildren fish the pond, as do a few neighborhood teens, but we have strict rules. The big ones can be taken home and eaten; all the rest have to be treated gently and put back. In fact, no fish has ever been taken out.

The pond is also home to up to 100 ducks that come and go in spring, summer, and fall. But, in winter, they are there in large numbers because I feed them corn all year around. Ducks may be skittish and not very bright, but they know their food source.

After I give them their pail of corn, I stand nearby to shoo away the ten or so deer that have decided our five acres are home. For them, the corn is a pleasing dessert. When the snow is deep, they too get fed.

We feel incredibly lucky to live where we do. Every day we marvel at the beauty of our property and we like sharing it with the fish, ducks, and deer, as well as the horde of birds that grace it all year around.

A Different Kettle of Fish

The geese are a different story entirely. I confess that, for the most part, I have never like geese. They tend to travel in large flocks, make an awful din, are unpleasantly aggressive and, above all, make a terrible mess. All they seem to do is honk loudly and poop, and once they settle in, they are very hard to dislodge.

When they come in waves each spring and fall, it is a war of attrition. I want them to go; they are determined to stay. They settle at the edge of the pond and I run at them, flapping my arms and shouting. They squawk and become agitated, resisting to the last second, then flying into the water, complaining loudly - but they don’t fly off.

Then I throw stones at them, hoping to get close enough to persuade them they are not welcome. Sometimes that works, but more often they just go to the other side of the pond. So at night, after they have settled down, I race at them waving a broom and screaming. The idea is to make them so edgy and uncomfortable, they will decide to leave.

For years I won, each gaggle would stay a few hours or, at most, a day or two. Then they would decide it just was too unfriendly a place.

The Couple

Eight years ago, they came again, but something was different. Two of the geese, clearly a pair, stayed away from the others, both on land and in the water. It was as if they were saying, We are different; don’t include us with our brethren. When the others finally left, honking in anger, the pair left with them, but I knew something was up. I was sure they’d be back - and they were. Two days later, they came quietly in the evening, alighting in the pond and watching me as I walked to its edge. I knew they were waiting to see what I would do.

As I looked at them, trying to figure what approach to take, Barbara joined me. "They are a pair", she said. "You know they mate for life. Let them stay. They won’t bother us".

And so I did. At first, they stayed only during the day. Then they started to stay at night as well. The ducks continued to come, demanding their corn. Initially, I decided not to feed them, afraid I would encourage the geese. But, it didn’t work. Finally, I gave in.

At first, the geese watched from a distance as the ducks ate. The next day, I could see them watching from the far side of the pond as I threw the corn in the air so it distributed better. They had been there a week and, with a huge flourish of honking, they charged over to join the ducks.

I watched rom a little distance. They knew and I knew. "Oh well", I said to no one in particular, "I guess you are our geese now".

Fir six years, they held sway on the pond. Each year, she nested, but only once did that result in goslings.

They were clearly devoted to each other and gradually we became quite attached to them. They had decided this was their pond; ducks were okay, but not other geese. At first, they’d make a lot of noise, but leave the dislodging to me. Finally, afer one particularly difficult time persuading the goose intruders to leave, I turned to Mr Goose - whom we had named George - and said, "Some help you are. It’s your pond; you get them to leave".

Now I know geese do not understand English and I knew it was pure coincidence, but after that, George and Mrs George took a very active role in flying at the intruders. Most of the time, they succeeded, but when they couldn’t make the invaders fly off, I would help out. Our geese, like most geese, were very smart. Often they would join the intruders and when I rushed them, they would squawk loudly and fly off. Invariably, the whole gaggle would follow. The next morning or later that night, George and Mrs George would return, boisterous as ever.

After any event on the pond that aroused them, they would face each other and talk. Their conversations were a marvel to watch. They communicated more in a given day than most human couples do in a week. Their devotion was extraordinary. Here they were, paired for life, never far apart either in the confines of the pond or on the rolling adjacent lawns. It was easy to tell they enjoyed each other’s company.

"They are a devoted couple. It’s nice to have them around. You know they mate for life".

Yes, Barbara, I know. You say it often enough.

Gradually, they began to trust us - within limits. At first, they would stand on the edge as I fed the ducks, waiting impatiently until I moved off, then they would rush in, pushing the ducks aside to grab their share. It took several years before they led the run (or, more properly, the waddle) for the food. George always came first, hissing if he felt I was too close.

They spent the day in the pond or at its edge. Sometimes, he would stand on one leg, his neck and head buried in his wing, but, at our approach, he would stretch his neck and keep one eye riveted o us, suspicious we might have evil intentions toward him or his wife.

As he became more trusting, he would keep his head buried, but I could still see that eye fixed on me. It took a year before he’d completely ignore me, letting me come within ten feet as I removed algae or leaves from the pond.

Then, one day as I threw the corn, he came running up ahead of the ducks, stopping seven or eight feet away and talking softly without any hissing. When I threw the corn on the ground, George eagerly pecked at it, eating and talking at the same time.

And, so it went. They became our friends; we were captivated by their devotion. We never spoke about it, but I think we both wondered if their bond was greater than ours, even though we had been married for decades, raising three children through bad times and good.

Changes

The spring of 1998 followed a warm, virtually snowless winter. In early April, they made a nest, but in a different site. Every other time, it had been on the far side of the pond, behind a willow tree. This time, it was close t us, in a wooded area at the edge of the pond. I could see her sitting on that nest - awake, watching, protecting. Perhaps they thought that a change of scenery, of nesting site, would change their luck and produce a gaggle of goslings.

At the same time, George’s personality changed dramatically. Suddenly, he would not permit the deer on the front lawn. He would honk loudly and angrily and then charge, running or flying just above the ground, wings fully spread, making an enormous din.

The deer were no match for this irascible goose. They would split up, some on one side of the lawn, some on the other, but it made no difference. George would charge one group, harassing that group as a whole, then any individuals that entertained the notion of standing up to him. As soon as one group fled, he’d fix his eyes on the others and, with an angry bellow, charge until they too left.

With me, he was not quite sure how to behave. If I went into the barn and came out with the pail of corn, he frequently ran at me in a half charge, but he always stopped about ten feet away. Often, he would just stand and let me walk by, then I would hear the webbed feet slapping the driveway, or if he was on thee grass, I could see him out of the corner of my eye rushing to catch up. He would come within a few feet, mock-pecking at the orange pail. Unlike past months, whenever he got close, he hissed and when I threw the corn on the ground, he literally attacked it, hissing and eating at the same time.

His behavior was clearly purposeful. He wanted a full pail of corn on the ground for the infrequent occasions when Mrs George would leave the nest, eat and drink hurriedly, and then return to her maternal labors.

Sometimes when Barbara was gardening, he would come close to her and stand there until she got up, filled that pail with corn, and threw it on the ground near the pond. Then Mrs George would appear and feed while George, eating nothing, would stand guard.

And, so it went for weeks. Then, one day early in May, I ambled to the garage to get the pail of corn. George was in the pond but, unlike every other day, he seemed uninterested in my activities. I walked to the area at the edge of the pond where I ordinarily threw the corn. He remained in the pond, still uninterested. I threw the corn on the ground as usual. Thirty minutes later, when I left for work, eight deer were there and George didn’t chase them. "That’s strange", I thought.

The next day, George was sitting at the edge of the pond, not far from the nest. Again, I threw a pail of corn. Again, he paid no attention. I had a very queasy feeling. Something was wrong. I tried to locate Mrs George, but she wasn’t visible.

On the morning of the third day, George was sitting in the same place. I threw the corn down. Still no response. I looked at him. Something was very wrong. I walked to within a few feet of him and said, "What’s wrong, old man?"

With that, he looked at me. As I looked at him, I gasped for in that eye there was an unmistakable look of terrible despair, of sadness, of overwhelming sorrow. And, in that moment of communication between goose and man, I blurted out, "I’m so sorry".

Then, shaken by that look, I walked around to the nest. It was empty, but undisturbed. There were no eggs, no sign of a struggle. I was to learn later that a coyote had killed her in the middle of the night and dragged the carcass about a quarter of a mile where feathers and body parts were found. Not knowing that Mrs George was dead and puzzled by the benign appearance around the nest, I walked back to where George had been siting, but he was gone. We would never see him again.

Later, after we knew the full story, Barbara said, "Maybe he has not gone forever. Maybe he’ll be back. Sometimes they find new partners". She was giving voice to that wellspring of inner hope that helps us all deal with tragic events. But, we knew it was not to be. George, heartbroken, had almost certainly flown off to die.

Life Lesson

That look of overwhelming sorrow in his eye has haunted me ever since. It is more than just thinking about it; I can visualize it and it is never far from my consciousness. I wondered how many other species mate for life.

Are we humans so focused on ourselves that we have little consideration for the other species that inhabit our Earth? How often do we consider the consequences of what we do to animals or birds on their familial relationships or on their dependent and fragile young? Was not the devotion to each other of our goose couple as strong as any human bonds and deserving of the same respect? Isn’t that what parents and schools should be teaching our children?

Of course, life goes on. The flocks of geese returned almost immediately. There was no goose couple to tell them this pond is already taken and to drive them off. I still didn’t want the pond overrun with geese and, as in the past, I made it clear they were not welcome. They were tenacious, but so was I, and I harassed them until, protesting loudly, they flew off.

This went on for several weeks; then I noticed that a pair stayed apart from the rest. One day after the larger gaggle had gone, they came back and stayed a few hours. They watched me closely, obviously testing whether I would let an isolated pair stay. When I left them undisturbed that first evening, they got the message. The next afternoon, they were back and the day after that. They haven’t adopted the pond as their own yet, but we think they will.

"Maybe it’s George with a new partner", said Barbara. But, we know that is not the case. We have seen this pair up close; they are actually a much younger and far less demonstrative pair. We will not see George again.

Our experience with George and his wife has changed our lives. I consciously try to be nicer to my colleagues. I am not particularly demonstrative; I never have been. But, I hug my wife a lot more now. When we walk, she has always been the leader in taking my hand; I virtually never took the initiative. Now, I seek her hand as often as she takes mine. She thinks it is my mellowing with age and a by-product of realizing that, as we get older, there are not a great many years, or decades, left.

There is some truth in that, but it doesn’t really account for the change. For the most part, it is the effects of the soul-penetrating look in the eye of that shattered goose that will be with me for the rest of my life. Mostly, it is the tale of the goose.

Reprinted from New Jersey Outdoors, Winter 2000