GUSSIE, “THE GOOSE”

Having lived for several years in the woods of Maine, my family and I have witnessed many a stray animal passing by: chickens, cats, dogs and even a peacock, but that’s another story. I’ll always remember one creature that showed up during a frosty morning when we were all awakened by some loud knocking noises, in what I thought was the front door. Who could be visiting at this early hou,r as I stumbled to the door in the pre-dawn light. I looked out through the door window and saw no one. But yet the persistent knocking continued and heard the sounds now coming from the corner of the house. Then, all of a sudden, there appeared a large white goose at the bottom of the doorstep. He had his head at an acute angle as he peered back at the likes of me. He seemed to be saying something with his body language that he probably needed a hand out.

Well, this surprised me to no end, and being an animal lover from way back, I raided the breadbox and grabbed a handful of slices, which I tore up and threw to him. He began munching the bigger morsels into smaller pieces and then worked hard cleaning the crumbs up, his beak working furiously to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He was completely ignoring me, as I observed him closely from outside the door. I had no doubt he was going to be sticking around for awhile, but little did I know at that time, that it would be both an interesting and challenging experience for the whole family. That day we adopted him, or should I say he adopted us.

He was a handsome goose, adorned with feathers, white as snow, and clear blue eyes and a large yellow-orange beak that dominated his face. But it was those big floppy webbed feet that made him look a bit clownish, and awkward as he wobbled around to peck at the grass and weeds that made up our front lawn. My young son soon had a name for him-“Gussie”, “Gussie the Goose” as we later called him. It was soon apparent to us that his basic good looks belied his mischievous personality, for Gussie was to become one of the most cantankerous rascals that we dealt with at the farmstead.

He had this sneaky behavior of charging up to you and biting you anytime you turned your back to him. This aggressive behavior of his was incorrigible, even though we walked around with sticks to slap on the ground whenever he threatened an attack, to show him we meant business and biting wasn’t allowed. He remained stubborn and defiant always trying to intimidate all who walked in his path, hissing and faking one of his rapid sneak attacks as soon as you turned your back. Even with those floppy feet, he was amazingly fast.

He did not get along with the dogs, and from time to time would raid their food bowls. The dogs would of course growl and bark at him while he hissed and flapped his wings aggressively in their faces. Many a time, I thought they might grab him by the neck, but he moved in the nick of time avoiding them. Once he got really courageous and snuck up on “Shadow”, our 150 pound Newfoundland, who was lying down just minding her own business. He bit into her bushy tail with a bulldog tenacity and would not let go. Poor Shadow tried to shake him off by running in circles while he stayed attached , flapping his wings like one of those old flying machines, that couldn’t get off the ground. It was a sight to see. Before she could get her powerful jaws on Gussie’s slender but muscular neck, he would let go and retreat, all the time hissing and making a fuss of his displeasure with canines. He was instigating a lot of battles with all the dogs we had and they were always at a disadvantage, since they were chained and he was free. He had a lot of close calls when, for sure, they were going to catch him and make him into pâté, but he always managed to wiggle away with feathers flying all over the place and then would turn around and hiss at them in total disgust, like he was telling them,”I Got cha!”

One day I took out a large 50lb dog food bag filled with kitchen garbage, and he suddenly attacked the bag as I struggled to hold it. He bit into the bag ferociously, beating at it all the while with those powerful flapping wings . It was incredible to feel the power of the wings slamming into the bag ripping and knocking the garbage all over the place, while I struggled to keep it between me and the goose. I tend to think it was that picture of a big dog on the bag that got him all riled up that day.

His main territory that he staked out was around the log shelter, which, unfortunately, you had to go by in order to get to the front door of the house. You had to expect his loud hissing and possible attack from behind, which meant you had to face off with him and carry a big stick, in the beginning. Then, I soon discovered that if you looked him square in the eye and yelled at him, you could call his bluff. Still you were never quite sure you would be nailed by a sneak attack as you turned your head from him. I can’t tell you why we put up with this nasty fowl, but somehow I think we respected his spunk and there was always something comical about him to give you a good laugh, despite bad behavior. I should not leave out that he did possess a few positive attributes- he was a better “watch dog” than the dogs were, with the keen hearing that is a trait of these creatures, we always knew when someone was coming down the 800 foot driveway. He would sound the alarm with loud boisterous quaking, and hissing. This would usually get the sleeping dogs to start their barking. And then he was good for the lawn, for he ate the weeds, especially the dandelions. I always got a treat to see him bathe himself, as he was so graceful, looking almost like a swan grooming his pure white feathery body and enjoying his swim in the nearby stream.

Anytime you parked the ‘73 Buick near the log shelter, he would strut around the car for hours pecking the large shiny bumpers. He was seeing his image and being fooled that there was another obnoxious goose trying to take over his territory. Once we left town in another vehicle for a full day, and when we came back, there was Gussie marching around the Buick as though he was on guard duty at Fort Knox. He had this other bad habit of launching attacks on any vehicle that happen to pass by his guard duty station by darting out, with his long neck stretched out like a lance, head low to the ground. One time he didn’t stop too quickly, and he got hit and I almost thought I had done him in, when I saw feathers flying up by the window. He was squawking and hissing as he somehow picked himself up and limped off to the corner of the shelter. For a few days he was out of action, but eventually he was back to normal. Gussie never learned any lessons from any of his ordeals, and I’m convinced that he thought he had nine lives. Sometimes he would be bloody from some of his battles, but he was fearless and tough as they come.

His wings were clipped, but it was always a magnificent sight to see him take off about three feet above the ground and fly for about 50 feet. I t always impressed me to see him airborne flying along side of me honking in sheer ecstasy. He seemed so proud of showing me this accomplishment.

He was a part of my family for several years and we all loved him. A white goose can live to be 30 years old, from what I was told, but it was a cold winter day when I was driving down the driveway in my old ’68 Chevy plow truck and Gussie came charging out for the attack. Unfortunately it was icy that day and I didn’t give it a thought that he would not be able to stop in time. He slipped, and the right wheel of the truck ran over his neck. I heard a bump and saw him reel back, flapping his wings for a few moments. I rushed out to aid him, it was pitiful to view him struggling with a broken neck, as his head was hanging awkwardly to the side. He dropped over and those beautiful blue eyes were closing before me as I watched him die. He’s buried next to Shadow, the Newfoundland, on the farmstead.