The following article was first published in the Fort Bragg Paraglide in 1987.
A Boy and His Goose
Not long ago, I visited the Animal Shelter here at Fort Bragg to see what kinds of pets were available for adoption. Among several others, I was introduced to a female, mixed Beagle pup and a cute but witchingly black male kitten.
I would have told them I wanted to adopt the puppy for my son and the kitten for my daughter, but honesty and Scripture prevented me from stating such false intentions. I wanted both animals for myself. I love animals.
As a boy, I always maintained a menagerie of pets. At 14, I had more pets than any other boy in the neighborhood and still wanted more. I wanted a pet goose.
"A goose?!" Daddy said, then swore as he shook his head, "You've already got three dogs, two cats, a rabbit and a half dozen chickens."
"The chickens aren't pets," I answered sharply, not meaning to be disrespectful. It's just that any kid who had pet chickens had a serious character flaw. My chickens were for the eggs they laid. If they ever stopped laying eggs, they were supper.
Pet snake 
"Whatever," Daddy continued. "You're also keeping a couple of frogs, a toad, a few lizards, a garder snake and a box turtle in your bedroom."
"I lost my garder snake," I confessed then waited for the fireworks.
"Oh?" Daddy said, sorta asking as he squinted his pale blue eyes through the thick lenses of his Clark Kent glasses, studying my almost-innocent face.
"I lost my garder snake."
He started to say something but decided not to press the issue as to the whereabouts of my pet garder snake. He'd only have to explain to Mama why he allowed me to keep it in my bedroom in the first place. Having snakes in the house was a violation of the Not-Always-Uniform Code of Mama's Justice [N-A-UCMJ).
After several days of pestering him and praying for divine intervention, Daddy finally conceded and drove me out to a poultry farm. I could have a goose, so long as it was a female. That way, Mama could have the eggs. The competition spelled trouble for my chickens, which I could already smell a-frying.
I selected a fluffy, yellow gosling and name it Gertrude on the recommendation of the farmer's daughter, a girl who always made google eyes at me on the school bus. I had no way of knowing if my goose was male or female, and so I had to trust her judgment. It seemed to thrill her immensely to share her knowledge of farm animals.
However, as Gertrude grew older, his fluffy, yellow down turned to white feathers and a large, orange-red knot began to grow atop his bill. My goose was a gander!!! I realized too late never to trust the judgment of google-eyed girls.
By this point, it was also too late to give my goose a masculine name. He answered to Gertrude just as surely as my male Beagle answered to Smokey. Daddy then forced me to go with him back to the poultry farm to get a full grown, female goose. Miss Google Eyes thought I was coming to see her until I told her about her judgment error. She then suggested I name my female goose Heathcliff, a masculine name. Well, that just solved everything! [Girls!] I did what she told me though. [Boys!]
Despite Mama's objections, I often allowed Gertrude and Heathcliff to roam free in our fenced-in backyard, though they had a covered shelter and pen to stay in at night or when I wasn't home. Gertrude made a great first-alert guard because the slightest disturbance in the vicinity of our yard received his full attention. His high-pitch honk could be heard for miles.
Nibbling goose 
Whenever I stepped outside into the backyard and called "Gertrude," he'd always rush across the yard to greet me, honking with delight and with his large, white wings flapping with a mighty but unsuccessful effort to fly. He'd never run directly up to me though.
Gertrude would always stop just short of me, tuck his wings under then slither his long, ivory neck along the ground like an albino snake until he was close enough to nibble my legs. It was his way of saying, "Howdy."
A goose's bite isn't really painful. Gertrude would clamp onto the meaty part of my leg then twist his head from side to side. These bites usually left a superficial mark that could have prompted DSS to investigate our home for child abuse as I had quite a number of these scars on both my arms and legs.
On occasion, I'd spar with Gertrude for hours at a time. After these fights, I had enough goose bite scars to warrant immediate foster care.
To me, Gertrude was more than a pet; he was my buddy. He never really learned that he was a goose though. In fact, he didn't even know how to swim. He probably thought he was a dog from the way I trained him, a program that included walks around the neighborhood on a leash. I even trained him to be an attack goose.
One day, our neighbor's German Shepherd puppy got under our fence and thought Gertrude to be easy prey. Moments later, a very frightened pup was yelping for help while trying to create a hole in our fence in order to escape an angry goose.
Pets replaced 
Time has an adverse effect on almost every boy's affections. My fascination with slippery, mysterious creatures like frogs, toads, lizards, snakes and turtles was eventually replaced by other slippery, mysterious creatures - girls.
Even at 14, I was particularly stunned by a skinny, little girl in my Sunday School class. But her big, blue eyes intimidated me so much, I waited nearly 10 years to ask her to go out with me. Then I married her.
Due to this misplaced pre-occupation with girls, my pet menagerie slowly began to dwindle. Heathcliff never really was much of a pet though she did stay pretty close by Gertrude. And she did give Mama the eggs she wanted, which put an instant strain on my chickens' usefulness. They were delicious though.
All reptiles and amphibians held in jars and boxes in my bedroom were emancipated by Mama one day while I was at school. Thumper escaped through a hole under the fence during an afternoon feeding. Both my tomcats left home to pursue a life of crime. Hank, my Gordon Setter, died of a rattlesnake bite. Judy, my female Beagle, was taken by heartworms, and Smokey, my male Beagle, simply disappeared.
But Gertrude remained a true and loyal friend throughout my often troubled high school years. He was always there and anxious to see me, even on weekend visits home from
Then one winter evening, as the northern winds howled outside my barracks window at
I carefully folded the letter and stuffed it in my fatigue shirt pocket. Then quietly, I slipped on my beret and parka and stepped outside into the cold, arctic winds. The huge drifts of white snow seemed to glow in the darkness, reminding me of my old friend - my pet goose - my Gertrude.
Do you suppose the Animal Shelter ever has geese available for adoption? My kids might like to have one.