When it comes to geese, it’s us against them

This is the one, the column certain to bring down the wrath of the PETA people. 

PETA, for those of you just visiting our planet, stands for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. (Which, technically, should be PFTETOA, but that makes for a lousy, difficult to pronounce acronym.)

I’m generally an animal lover myself, by which I mean they taste great! Kidding.

Well, not entirely kidding; some of them really do taste great. Though I have to admit it sounds kind of barbaric when you come right out and say it like that. But I’m a carnivore and that’s not going to change, no matter how many pictures of dewey-eyed piglets the animal rights folks post on Facebook.

Despite my omnivorous tendencies, I do for the most part love animals. Most animals.

Some I don’t like at all.

I think some animals, just like some people, are just plain bad. (Or, in the case of nefarious goats, baaaaaaaaad.)

I don’t know if they’re born bad or if society is responsible for making them that way. The point is, I have little sympathy for bad critters.

I’m thinking specifically of a goose I met over 30 years ago. Geese, as I’ve since learned, are the grumpy old men of the animal kingdom. If they could speak, most of their conversation would consist of yelling at kids to get the heck off their lawn.

They’re cantankerous, ill-tempered fowl and the best thing you can say about them is … they’re delicious.

I knew none of this 30 years ago, however. Having been raised in The Big City, the only avians I had encountered were pigeons. Pigeons are basically rats with wings, but they for the most part mind their own affairs and leave members of the human population to tend to theirs.

My son, Jordan, was only three then. A sweet, trusting kid with even less knowledge of waterfowl than I possessed. 

It was only natural he should be curious about the geese wandering around the small pond at the park where we were picnicking. They are, after all, beautiful animals; graceful (at least in the air or on water — on land they move like badly-made windup toys) and to a small child, they are interesting.

While I lay out our picnic lunch, Jordan approached the largest of the geese. Being an ignorant city boy, I assumed the goose would retreat into the pond and that would be the end of it.

But no. Jordan toddled closer, hoping to make friends; the goose held its ground. It wasn’t until it actually began advancing on my son that I smelled trouble.

A cobra couldn’t have struck as quickly. Before I realized what was happening, Jordan was sitting on the ground holding both hands over his eyes as the towering bird moved in for the kill.

It turned out the goose wasn’t the only one that could move with cobra-like speed. In less time than it takes to read about it, I crossed the 30 feet or so separating us and — here’s the part the PETA people are going to grouse about — punted that goose farther than any NFL placekicker has ever moved a football.

The goose reentered the atmosphere safely and landed in the middle of the pond, where it sat honking accusingly at me. It was smart enough to stay away from shore, however. 

My son’s black eye served as a reminder, for the next couple weeks, that the animal kingdom maintains no organization dedicated to the ethical treatment of humans.

I don’t know if that goose still hangs out at that park. But every year, a week or two before Christmas dinner, I’m tempted to find out.