The Head Goose

Today, while driving through a local park, I stopped at 3:31 p.m. for about a dozen Canadian geese waddling across the road. They were led by a domestic goose—I’ll say it was of the Pilgrim variety (see photo I took of the goose at rest). Remarkably to me, there was a second Pilgrim taking up the rear, as if it were making sure there were no stragglers.

The geese were in no hurry. I tensed up when I saw an SUV coming the other way. Perhaps, this was a test of my faith in people to do the right thing; i.e., my fear that they won’t. I reached for a pen and pad to write down the license plate number of the vehicle after it plowed into the gaggle. But decency prevailed.

Four hours later I was walking my two dogs in the same park when I saw the same drill: geese waddling across the road, a Pilgrim in front, a Pilgrim in back. Cars were stopped. But this time when the lead Pilgrim reached the other side, she turned around and this caused the Canadians to stop in the middle of the road as if they were going on strike.

Then I got it. Drivers opened their doors. The geese began squawking. They wanted some handouts, after all, it would be dark in an hour—this was last call. Bread was tossed—the geese quickly exited the roadway for a few crumbs.

I had been accustomed to watching the Canadians fly from one side of the park to the other, but never had I seen them walk across a road in such large numbers. Perhaps, the Pilgrims had recruited them to help stop traffic in the belief that when cars stopped, doors opened and bread crumbs would follow.

While I am unsure of the stopping traffic strategy, I do know that at dusk the Canadians will form a V and fly west to marshlands and safety. They will receive a send-off from the two Pilgrims who will remain in the park, nesting on a small island until their buddies return at day break. Nice.