A Goose in Winter

This story won’t be easy, I suppose.

It began with a charity auction for an environmental center. A good enough cause, isn’t it? After a whisky or two—was it three?—I found myself bidding on the offering I was most interested in, a guided goose hunt for four, everything provided except hunters and guns.

Next thing I knew, I had won. Won? Well, maybe that’s not the right word. I’d outlasted the other bidders and bought the hunt. Still, it was at a price I considered a bargain. Except I’m not a goose hunter. Never was.

What now? My dear wife, who’s much smarter than I am and always was, suggested that we should invite Sam’s breeder. Sam’s our dog. And her breeder’s a genius, judging by Sam.

Fortunately they, the breeder and her husband, were up for a hunt and the date chosen was the day before Thanksgiving. We’d have goose for dinner. And in the event of failure we’d have a turkey in reserve. Good Plan.

At sunrise, accompanied by a local guide named Cutter, we headed for the blind. It was located in an open field a hundred yards or more from open water. Cutter said nothing would happen until eleven o’clock. But how did he know? Indeed, at nine o’clock a single goose came by. Should we shoot? We did and missed.

Nothing more for two hours. The weather was bright and sunny and windy. Very windy. Canada geese were flying high overhead, and Cutter was doing his best to call them in. The decoys were out. He made very goose-like noises with his caller. They didn’t come in.

Then, precisely on schedule, the eleven o’clock flight arrived. Cutter honked, the geese turned, surveyed the landing site, and started coming down.

“Keep your heads down,” Cutter said. “Here they come. Be ready.”

Sure enough. When told to do so, we looked up and saw eight Canada geese crossing our line of sight twenty yards out. Now, when Canada geese land in a field they look like Phantom jets, landing gear down, flaps down, and rapidly losing forward momentum. There is a moment when they practically stop in midair, an awfully vulnerable moment if you’re a Canada goose.

We fired. Three fell, one clearly dead. One wounded, perhaps mortally. And one trying to fly, or walk, away. The other five, deciding they’d made a horrible mistake, wheeled and flew away, gaining altitude and distance beyond our range. Cutter left the blind on foot and quickly, mercifully, dispatched the walking wounded.

The hunt was a success. There would be—and was—roast goose for Thanksgiving.

But there was something ineffably sad about it. I’m not prepared to be a vegetarian, but I know what it means to eat meat.