The Saga of Destroy and the Goose

Do not be fooled.

Do not be fooled.

Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way: geese are assholes.

Yesterday I posted a picture (see above) of the moment just before Destroy got bit by brethren of the aforementioned foul fowl. Here’s the full story.

After a morning spent demonstrating that neither 5-year-old was capable of coexisting peacefully indoors, I herded the brothers outdoors.

To the park!

But first, a pit stop at the sandwich shop. Cranky muppets forewarned a major meltdown, and I was not about to be bested by low blood sugar. We procured bread, meat, and chips (nothing else to spoil our spoils) and headed toward the playground with a pirate ship.

I’m not a huge fan of this park. Geese the size of not-so-small dogs stalk the perimeters, pooping their paths along the way. But spider web climbing structures won out over my disdain for avian excrement.

We set up shop at a nearby park bench, spreading our picnic bounty out before us and tucking in. Destroy has a unique fascination with Cheetos. This is likely because he is only ever allowed to have them in outdoor dining scenarios. (Taste the orange…)

With their beady little eyes narrowed in on a potential target, the bugger birds zeroed in on us.

I warned Destroy, “Don’t tease the birds or offer them any of your food. They’re too used to people food.” (I blame other park patrons for incessantly feeding wild animals and teaching them bad manners while simultaneously fattening them up.)

And he listened. Well, that or he just wasn’t about to share any of that precious Cheetos powder. Destroy remained seated at the table, munching on Cheetos.

One goose approached – perilously close – clearly unafraid. Then in a Twilight Zone tableau of Dickensian Christmas’ past, the flying entrée lunged forward and snatched an orange puff from Destroy’s finger.

There was a momentary pause of shock, followed by the tell tale wail of fright and pain.

I have never wanted to kick an animal so bad.

After immediately reassuring my little trooper that he was totally fine, no big deal at all, it occurred to me that perhaps I should check for actual injuries.

A neon pink ooze secreted down the contours of his index finger. I was forced momentarily to wonder if Destroy had just experienced the beginnings of mutant transformation into GooseMan (with great power comes great responsibility).

But I quickly figured out it was just a couple droplets of blood, pursed from the strong pinch on his finger, co-mingling with the not-found-in-nature orange hue of his chips of choice.

Meanwhile Search, while remaining all the while silent, had packed up his sandwich and Sun chips and relocated himself to a shaded bench on the opposite side of the playground – just quietly and quickly packed up his things and got the heck out of dodge.

Cheetos, blood, angry birds. Nope.

That kid is seriously risk aware – leaving his brother to serve as the demo man, while Search canvasses quarters as the quiet sleeper agent.

End result: Returned home with two boys. Each with 10 digits remaining on their hands. Neither likely to be asking for a bird any time soon.

 

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