I’ve got a friend who lives in the Oregon countryside just far enough out of Portland that the roar of commuter traffic is reduced to a harmless moan. Out there the air is sweet, the flowers are thick, and her farm produces bushels and bushels of…geese.
Not just any geese, giant puffballs of curly feathers and disdain called Sebastopols.
I am gorgeous. You are not.
Now, most sensible farm folk would go for chickens or turkeys or something practical and easy like that. But Vivian likes things fancy-schmancy. You should see her garden.
We are also gorgeous. Serve us, minion.
Like any high maintenance runway model, all that fabulousness requires constant cleansing, fluffing, and rearranging.
I’m not losing feathers, I’m streamlining my contours.
Looks like Donald Trump’s shower drain.
Securing private time at the spa is mandatory for best results.
Is it too ironic to ask for a rubber ducky?
They seem docile at first but if you spook them, they immediately channel their inner Velociraptor and hiss at you like monsters in a Steven Spielberg movie.
Get ready to run, men. She’s only going to buy this act for another ten seconds, tops.
When they’re not posing for Vogue or pretending to be vicious, they actually make excellent parents. However, sometimes rambunctious goslings need time in the playpen.
I don’t care which one of you pecked the dog, you’re all getting a time out.
This is the middle gosling above, just more of him. Amazing what only four days of eating, pooping, and playing in the fresh air can do.
What are you doing in there? Lifting weights?
In fact, goslings can double their size in a week because everything is potentially edible to a gosling, even cameras.
Can I eat this?
How about this?
The thing about cute little kids, though, is that eventually they become teenagers. Scruffy, disheveled, uncoordinated teenagers.
I heard that.
And it’s called Lumbersexual, you troglodyte.
They join gangs and hang out with the wrong element.
So, we’re agreed? We attack the farmer’s dog at dawn!
They take over the public pool.
Um…guys? You said it was my turn at 2 PM. It’s 2:23 now. Guys?
Hold on….cherry tree.
Oh, baby. That’s what I’m talking about. 
[Insert festival of pie-making with homemade hot fudge sauce. For reasons.]
Where was I? Oh, right, geese.
I’m even prettier than lilies.
Vivian has been breeding Sebastopols for years because she is a patient, sweet-hearted masochist with an eye for beauty. I just pet the goslings and let them nibble my shoelaces.
And I’m still better looking than you.
I’ll be back when the blackberries are ripe.
June 21, 2015
All Thoughts Work™ Outdoors 5 