Don’t Forget About the Geese
One of suburbia’s most entertaining creatures.
Geese occupy a similar role in suburban life as squirrels.
They are not welcome into the prestigious sphere of human activity, but they are not disruptive enough to warrant an excommunicado from civilization. They effectively painted themselves into the fabric of daily life in dull colors. A goose will hardly ever cause a stir, but you won’t likely find one with a name.
Geese love my apartment building. They hold conventions right outside my window. Admittedly, when I first moved in, I saw them as a nuisance. Their presence only served to distract me.
Recently, as the weather grew nicer, I began to start doing work on the patio, giving me a front-row ticket to the goose show. During these long hours spent outside, I developed a sort of intimate relationship with the geese. I’d find myself in a trance watching their tribal politics play out instead of doing my stats homework.
If you ever have the opportunity to watch a flock of geese for an extended period, you’ll realize they’re marvelously entertaining animals. When they walk, they don’t just move their feet. Their entire, tubular neck lunges forward with every stride. It’s almost like their beaks point in a direction and their body just follows.
And then there’s the sounds.
I realize there’s no common vernacular for the sound a goose makes. Ducks quack, birds chirp, chickens cluck, but geese just make noise. Interestingly, their noises aren’t as uniform as they initially seem. When a family of geese squawks (I’m going with squawk) as a group, the result is a higher pitch sound which resembles an attendance call during which every goose must announce their presence. One goose emits a high-pitched squawk and the rest follow. These noises generally are repeated for 30 seconds to a minute, and the geese all usually find each other by the end.
Then there’s the low-pitched squawk reserved for the leader of the group. You can tell who she is, slightly bigger than the rest, chest and neck perched further forward. Her squawk requires a whole warm-up routine. You can see her sucking in the air as she prepares to call her family. Her head tilts back, and then like a ripple, her long neck gradually extends forward as she coughs out a guttural squawk. Unlike the higher-pitched squawk, this one garners no response, but it does garner attention. All the other geese take a break from their scouring for food to see what their brave leader has to say. I have no clue what that is. It could be anything from “there’s more food over here” to “there’s a skinny college student watching us from his balcony and taking notes.”
There are probably more subtle variations, but my ears aren’t trained enough to notice those yet.
The part of watching geese that entertains me the most is how they interact with water.
The lawn of my apartment building has many divots that create little pools after it rains. When a goose spots one, it runs towards it with an exuberance I can only compare to a child running towards a sprinkler on a hot day. Its wings spread open and it sprints towards the pool, squawking excitedly, and when it reaches its destination, it flaps its wings, splashing its friends as if bragging about its amazing discovery.
From behind the tall chain link fence that separates my building from the corporate land behind it, the deer look on with confusion before getting back to their own grazing. There are times when an intense staredown occurs between the geese and the deer. Nothing comes of it, but it is a fascinating display of natural curiosity.
Animals recognize the distinction between nosiness and curiosity better than humans. We’ll poke around until we’re no longer welcome, but animals, like the geese and the deer, will take a second to look up from their eating, and once they assess the situation, go back to their activity. It’s a trait we can learn from them. I think there’s a lot we can learn from them.
Which makes it a shame when I see a goose’s dead body on the side of the road pummeled by a car, its life snuffed out in a second in the most unceremonious manner imaginable.
Every year, 340 million birds are killed on the road by cars or trucks.
This number dwarfs the damage hunters do to bird populations. It used to be when I saw a dead bird on the road, I’d feel the same thing most people feel: indifference. Maybe even callousness. But as I watch the geese from my porch, notice their group dynamics, listen to their communication, and revel in their pure ecstasy at the sight of water, I can’t help but feel like they miss their fallen friends.
I understand death is a part of nature and we cannot mourn every time a goose dies, but car deaths are definitely not a part of nature. They are a result of design choices that make it dangerous for anything, even car-wielding humans, to move about freely.
I don’t mean to condemn people who drive — I myself drive a lot — but I think it’s time we emerge from our collective ignorance and realize nature is not our plaything. It’s composed of delicate ecosystems which we barrel over to make room for yet another Home Depot.
People can’t reduce driving until better systems are in place, and better systems won’t be implemented until we admit there is a problem. We don’t have to prioritize animal wellness over our own, but animals have a home on Earth too, and there is no reason to treat them with the indifference we often do.
Geese may blend into the urban canvas, but they are not invisible. Just a few minutes watching them closely, you’ll realize how utterly alive they are. Just like us.
It’s natural to adopt a human-centric mindset in our human-centric society, but don’t forget about the geese.
