By Philip Hunt
It was an otherwise normal fall day for school drop off. Sandwiched between cookie-cutter homes, a barn and an old farmhouse were the only remnants of a family ranch that progress surrounded decades ago. The red barn stood out among a backdrop of orange leaves. The grass lot in front of the barn was frequented by Canada geese who loafed and ate there in the morning and evening.
Driving by the grass lot, I noticed a group of people standing around something that looked akin to a cobra being charmed.
“What was that?” Paul, my 12 year old, asked.
“I think someone hit a goose with their car,” I replied.
“Why is its head bobbing around like that?” Paul continued.
Paul knows where his food comes from. He’s taken lethal shots on squirrels, doves, and deer. He’s helped prepare finned, feathered, and furred creatures for the table. So I knew Paul could handle my response, “It probably has a fractured skull, I’m sure that older gentleman will take care of it.”
That man did not, in fact, take care of it. After dropping Paul off, I observed the same group still huddled around the dying goose. Pulling the truck over into the grass, I hopped out and asked if I could help.
The gentleman quickly said, “Yes! I’ve called the police, animal control, the county,…everyone. No one will come out here to help this goose.”
Looking at the man and the two other ladies, I realized they probably had never plucked a goose or wrung a duck’s neck. As the long neck of the goose weaved back and forth I stated what I thought was obvious, “There is no helping this goose. I can take care of it now if you want.”
The group looked at each other, then back at me and nodded in affirmation. As I reached in the bed of my truck for the bush ax I heard one of the ladies say, “It’s going to be ok Mr. Goose. This nice man is going to help you out and take care of you.”
Involuntarily, my eyebrows raised, my head tilted to one side, and my mind inserted a record scratch sound. I slowly turned to the lady and said, “I don’t think the goose will consider what I’m about to do as helping.”
Her jaw dropped as she saw the bush ax in my hand. The man next to her also looked shocked. I had to make sure I was not about to be on some Karen’s social media or Next Door app.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m going to kill this goose. It’s been suffering for 45 minutes while y’all have been avoiding the obvious truth. Are we all in agreement that I am going to kill this goose?”
The last thing I needed was to be on the local news channel with the headline “Local Businessman Goes on Killing Rampage with an Ax.” The group again nodded in unison and stayed where they were. I paused another 10 seconds expecting them to disperse, yet no one moved.
“Are y’all waiting around to watch me?” I asked, stepping closer to the bird. The group got flustered and started walking back to the house across the street. After a quick check to make sure there wasn’t a minivan full of kids passing as I did the deed, in the words of Michael Scott, “His capa was detated.”
A couple weeks later, I saw the gentleman outside of his house looking up to the sky. I pulled into his driveway and introduced myself as the guy who took care of the goose. He kept looking at the sky and asking, “Do you hear that honking?”
I heard nothing.
He continued, “It’s weird, sometimes I can swear I hear a goose as the sun sets, but I can’t see any around. Don’t you hear that?”
I turned the truck off, stepped out, and listened. Nothing. I said, “I wonder if a goose can be a ghost?”
Looking back across the street at the old farm, I thought about the people that once lived there decades ago. They raised livestock, butchered them, and killed predators. Now their neighbor looks for others to do the right thing when it comes to a suffering animal. The Headless Honker flies around suburbia at sunsets haunting men who hire out the hard work.
