Hard love Lucy

“What a crock of crap!” (or something like that) muttered Uncle Mitch in response to the tale being told by my parents. The part that seemed to get him was the cuddling, though the account of the prerequisite chase around the yard did little to assuage his disdain for the whole affair.

Mitch is a practical man, not given to hugging geese. And my parents—let’s just say they love the life forms entrusted to their care—are no ordinary goosekeepers.

Lucy came to live with Dot and Orm by way of my sister, Amy, champion of roadside rescues. A blue-eyed beauty, like her rescuer, Lucy cuddled coyly on the car ride to her new home. Nestled in my sister Sharon’s lap, Lucy nuzzled the back of her neck, initiating the paradox that continues to define this mysterious feathered being; Lucy likes affection, but she’s got a “goosier” side, too.

Master of the sneak-attack, Lucy’s perfected that peculiar goosey habit of the hissing, head-dropping, forward-driving rush that ends in a nasty snap on whomever she has targeted. The inevitable bruise becomes the badge by which we measure Lucy’s love, for it seems she chooses victims based on her affections.

Mom is Lucy’s primary caretaker and first recipient of a Lucy love-bite. Like a lovesick stalker, Lucy followed Mom into the garden one day, sneaking up behind the unsuspecting weeder and inflicting her blow near Mom’s elbow. Next it was Amy, standing innocently near the RV, her sandaled foot a super incentive for a goose on the loose. Inching unobserved from the vehicle’s far side, Lucy struck a woeful blow to a vulnerable toe. Then Lucy gave Sharon a temporary trans-dermal tattoo. And my other sister, Jenny, got a hefty hip bruise from a fall while fleeing a Lucy charge.

That leaves my Dad and me, the last family members to lack a Lucy love-attack. I’ve no doubt she’s got her sights set on a Sandy-nibble. On a recent visit, she notched up her efforts so pointedly that I had to re-route several times to avoid the honky snapper. Still, she persisted, driving me to swat the naughty nipper in self-defense. Now she’s got it in for me. I’m starting to think I’d better let her get it over with, and call a truce with this loony goose.

As for Dad, who promised her, “One whap from you and you’re stew!” it seems they’ve settled the score. So every evening, Mom gathers a cranky goose in her arms and heads for a handcrafted miniature house near the meadow. Dad stands at the ready with a goose-guiding broom should the flapper wrestle free of Mom’s embrace. Just before Lucy enters the small door, the cuddling begins. The precocious pincher rests her head on Mom’s shoulder as Dad strokes Lucy’s feathered head and neck. Together, my parents talk quietly to their feisty pet.

“Now listen,” Dad urges me, grinning at their goose. Almost unbelievably, a soft sound begins—Lucy lets down her goosey guard and heaves a sigh, then another and another, as she drapes her snow-white throat along my mother’s neck. I just wish Uncle Mitch could see this. Then he’d know it’s true: we’re as zany as our goose.