Charlie

In the 1970’s, a friend of our family was moving. She stopped at our farm enroute to her destination with all her possessions packed into a station wagon. Tucked in the very back, was a large goose named Charlie. She sadly had to part with him because her new place was in town and apparently came with a strict no-geese-in-the-backyard policy. One of my brothers was absolutely thrilled and instantly they became friends.

Charlie loved to chatter as if he had urgent farm business to discuss. My brother would speak to him, and Charlie would chatter right back like they were in the middle of a very important conversation. He would follow my brother all the way down to the barnyard and back to the house, chatting nonstop the entire trip, like a feathery tour guide who never ran out of commentary. He lived in the barn but preferred to wander the farmyard apparently keeping tabs on everything. My mom would call to him from the kitchen window, “Charlie, what are you doing up here?” and Charlie would waddle straight over, plant himself beneath the window and chatter at her as if he had been waiting all day to give his official report. We thought he was quite remarkable and, to be honest, just a little bit convinced he believed he was running the place.

Around the same time, we raised a batch of tame ducks. We filled an old kiddie pool with water for them and got a real kick out of watching them paddle and swim. But once they got bigger and more adventurous, the pool lost its charm. Before long, they were following the trail to the slough to the east of the buildings. There they found duck “paradise”.

Charlie strongly disapproved. He marched after them like a self-appointed barnyard sheriff, then came hustling back to report the jailbreak. His usual chatter had turned into a full-blown alarm, and it was clear he was deeply concerned about the ducks’ terrible life choices. He chattered furiously, turned toward the escapees, and fixed a scandalized stare on them. If geese could point with their wings, he absolutely would have, but lacking that skill, he held his neck high and stiff, his “boss” indicator, and made do with pressing his bill in their direction like an indignant hall monitor. He was telling on them like a school kid. As it turned out, the coyotes loved eating ducks, so we really did have to wade into the slough and get the ducks for their own safety. They’d grown big enough to develop all the charm and cooperation of teenagers. If you’ve ever had to pick up your teenagers from their favorite hangout; whether it was a party, a dance, or the Vermilion Fair, you are already getting the picture. In other words, the task ahead was shaping up to be a full-blown comedy of errors. To top it all off, we were dealing with excellent swimmers.

Charlie followed us to the edge of the slough, then stationed himself a safe distance from the chaos like a supervisor who had no intention of doing any actual work. Three of us tried to corner the ducks and herd them toward shore, figuring they’d naturally paddle the other way and make our job easy. That theory lasted about three seconds. The ducks were absurdly fast, weirdly athletic, and fully capable of slipping past us with the smug confidence of small feathered escape artists. After a couple exhausting hours and the addition of a dinghy, a fishing net, and a few more siblings, we finally returned victorious with the ducks. And there was Charlie, waddling behind us the whole way back to the enclosure, honking/chattering nonstop like he had personally coordinated the entire operation.

What should have been a simple duck roundup became a full-scale operation, complete with reinforcements, marine support, and one extremely vocal goose acting like the mission commander. Another fun adventure in our lives growing up!