Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me.

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Archive for the tag “geese”


ANGRY BIRD4:45am.  There is a fifty pound bird in the tree outside the open window CHIRPING in letters 10 feet tall.  Surely soon his head will explode with the effort.  At least I hope so. Although we did get the house painted this past spring and fifty pounds of exploded bird would be a lot of power washing.

Still, the satisfaction of  his head exploding right in the middle of the CHIR—-Boooooooooooooooooom! … it could be worth it.

None of the other birds are answering him.  I know they can hear him because the window panes are rattling slightly with every booming CHIRP.  “Don’t you DARE answer him!” sternly whispers Mrs. Robin in Mr. Robin’s ear.   Mr. Robin sighs and goes back to reading the gardening section.  All the neighborhood girl robins are giggling.  “Wow, look at the size of his CHIRP!” they whisper, while their moms lock them all in the closet at the back of the nests and throw away the key.

The year we moved into the house there was a socially awkward goose in our cove.  It was very, very sad.  I’m not sure if he had anger management issues or perhaps the other geese had a bigger HONK; either way it appeared he had no friends.  I couldn’t really blame the other geese even though it did make me feel badly for him.  I remember the first day I saw him.  I was sitting outside with a cup of coffee, enjoying the beautiful morning.  A goose couple were floating about rhythmically yelling at each other, HOUNK then HONK then HOUNK then HONK, repeatedly.  There was really no need for them to yell, they were only about six inches from each other.  In all honestly it was very irritating.  Irritating, but not attack provoking.

Suddenly from the end of my cove arose a fury of goose, taking a running start on the surface of the lake and gaining altitude he went speeding just above the water directly for the geese doing about 60 and BAM he slammed into the back of the goose’s neck, feathers flying HOUNK HONK HOUNK HONK HOUNK HONK.  The offending goose scrambled across the water, finally managing flight with Socially Awkward Goose in hot pursuit.

“Hounk?  Hounk?” questioned the abandoned half of the goose couple, paddling forlornly.

A couple days later they were back, hounking and honking.  I learned to know whenever they were around by their distinctive and, frankly, incredibly boring conversation.   Hi, I’m home!  Hi, how was your day? Hi, I’m home!  Hi, how was your day? Hi, I’m home!…and then he’s off again, S.A. Goose flying angrily across the lake and nailing the offending goose again…again… “Hounk?  Hounk?” she would query as the two flew off, S.A. in hot pursuit of Offending Goose.

I began to wonder if O.G. was perhaps HONKING insults?  “HONK! (I’ve got a mate and you don’t)”  “HONK! (nanner nanner nanner)”

Finally the 4th of July rolls around.  S.A.G. was, as usual, all by himself, floating in circles at the far end of the cove.  I noticed geese were beginning to gather in the lawn next to the boat launch across the lake.  They were all walking around with their little adolescent geese mingling, honking and muttering.  It looked like a picnic only without hot dogs.  Which would be a very sucky picnic, if you ask me.  You have to have hot dogs.  They need to have those almost black, but not quite black, burned-y stripes on them, and the buns have to be balloon bread buns, where you slather on a whole bunch of cheap yellow mustard and put the hot dog in the bun and squish the bun around the hot dog until the air is all out of the bun and it’s kinda stuck to the hot dog.  Nom Nom Nom, Repeat.  Also if you can get your hands on some Chili Cheese Fritos, that’s about all you need.  Maybe a diet Dr. Pepper, but that’s it.

Anyway, what do geese know?  They apparently thought it was a great picnic and they were all walking around eating bugs out of the grass and murmuring-honking at each other “honk wow Henry, the chicks are getting big!”  “yep, yep,” said Henry, “pretty soon we’ll be kicking them out of the nest.”  “It goes so fast, doesn’t, Henry, old boy?”

Meanwhile S.A.G. had moved a few houses down, hiding on the other side of a docked boat.  He’d kinda honk a little, then he’d swim to the front of the boat and peer down the lake at the goose picnic.  Then he’d swim back toward shore and float.  Then, back to the front of the boat, peering.  Back – forth.  Back – forth, honking softly to himself.


But, I couldn’t.  He didn’t understand English and the shouting appeared to frighten him.  Plus the neighbors were all out having their own picnics, staring at me, shouting at a goose.

So, on this Memorial Day, when you remember all those who gave their all for our freedom, this story actually has nothing to do with that.

(With thanks to my father, uncles and everyone else that allow this country the freedom where someone can write a stupid story about a goose and eat hot dogs.)

Exercise and the Exorcist – Part 2

It’s been established that you know about my terrible problem, Butt Falling Off Syndrome, and I want to thank both of you for your cards and flowers.  The donation to Asses of the World Club was probably excessive but I know you meant well.  And I don’t mean to complain but I think it could have been worded better.  Something about In Honor of the Biggest Half Ass We Know doesn’t seem quite right.

So … I went to visit the Exorcist.  Since the walls are padded no one heard my screams.  I was told no exercise for 24 hours which meant no run that Friday.  Saturday I worked a race with wind chills in the low teens; after 1-1/2 hours I was so cold and shivering so hard that I couldn’t  have run if she’d been chasing me with a Yanni CD.

Sunday dawned grey and cloudy but what would you expect since said it would be partly sunny?   At least it was a balmier 21 degrees with only a breeze.  I was so fed up with being cold I totally over-dressed (as it turns out, two pair of running tights, two L/S tech T’s, a vest and a windbreaker are not overdressing in a breezy grey 21 degrees).  I never got terribly cold although my 18-hour Hot Hands wimped out in 2 hours.  I had the sense this time to carry my Shot Blox for fuel.  Which, by the way, when you carry Shot Blox in your pocket and it’s 21 degrees they freeze solid and when you try to bite one off they clink solidly against your teeth.  Be careful unless you want to help your dentist pay his kid’s tuition.  If you suck on them for about five minutes they thaw a bit and then you can spend at least 10 more minutes trying to chew them and vainly attempting to suck them off your teeth, where they are stuck like Gorilla Glue on my kitchen counter.  It will give you something to think about besides the pain in your ass.

Sara was fighting a cold and I was fighting asthma and we were unanimous in our cold grey breezy misery.  The same route that a couple of weeks ago passed like time lapse photography was now a. run. in. stop. motion.  Some geese flew by and to pass time I told them the sad story of the socially inept goose that lived on the lake last year.  I felt so sorry for the poor thing but really, if you’re going to go around dive bombing the other geese and refuse to play nicely you are going to find yourself, at some point, an outcast; they will probably not invite you to their 4th of July festivities and you’ll just have to hide behind the pontoon boat next to the landing and watch them party.  It seems geese are not known for being socially correct.

Doug then pointed out that geese fly in formation and constantly support and encourage each other as they fly south for the winter.  Apparently geese do not honk continuously while flying so that socially awkward adults who are home alone will run outside, look upward and say to no one, OH!  Look!  Geese!  Not that I ever do that.  The geese honk to encourage each other – which is not what the other drivers on Germantown Parkway are doing at you when you’re doing 35 in a 50 and straddling the middle lane, just so you know, guy in the huge shiny black SUV talking on your hands free device and waving both hands in the air as you steer with your knee.

Helpfully, Doug demonstrated by honking.

Sara honked tentatively.

WTH, I honked.  We honked Doug honked Sara honked Terri honked.

Nasal Honk.

Gutteral Honk.

Bass Honk.

Soprano Honk.

honk honk.

It seemed to help.  We felt oddly cheered.

And then.  CD Smith, may you rest in peace, I hate your road.  Up down Up down Up down.  You couldn’t have a flat road in your name?

And … what is that?  Oh no it is not.

Oh, yes.  It is.  Running is once again a pain in the ass and I have 3.5 to get to my car.

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