Geese. I hate them.

I work in a building surrounded by geese. They crap all over the parking lot, block traffic, and basically stop being cute by the time you realize they would do minor damage to your car if you actually hit one. Which is tempting...

But I'm an animal lover. Being an animal lover, in general, is easy to do. But just because I'm an animal lover doesn't mean I love geese. In fact, I hate geese. There is a good reason behind my hatred of geese.

His name was Ollie.

When I was a kid, my family spent a lot of time visiting with my mother's side of the family in Wisconsin. The five-hour drive from Upper Michigan to my uncle's farmhouse in Slinger was sprinkled with fun memories like Nick throwing up in my dad's new car or hitting a deer that was running across the highway (probably being chased by a vicious, bloodthirsty goose). I loved being at the farmhouse. My Aunt Janice always seemed surprised that I didn't like strawberries, her favorite but my least (a very unfortunate heatstroke incident involving projectile vomit). My Uncle Larry sometimes hung me upside down by the heels and threatened to throw me away with the trash all the while convincing me that his real name was Uncle Stinker. Cousin Mike (aka Runt) fitting himself in the dryer during a game of Hide & Seek and me testing the true electrical current of the electric fence (it wasn't turned on - thank goodness).

Aaaah, memories.

Like I said, I loved being at the farmhouse. It was getting into the farmhouse that caused the most trouble. As soon as my family's station wagon was parked in the gravel in front of the house, Ollie would make his presence known. Honking. Honking. Honking. HONKING!!! Then, I could swear, he would charge. Like a bull. But he wasn't a bull. He was a goose. A scary, scary goose. My dad would honk the horn (which would make Ollie honk, too) to alert someone, anyone, in the house that we were being held hostage outside. In the car. By a goose. Named after Oliver North, I believe.

Ollie made vacation time at the farm difficult sometimes. I remember I would actually have to have a chaperone just to get me from Point A to Point B if I was going to be playing outside, lest I be chased, abducted, and brutally assaulted by some crazy goose. God, I hate geese.

I don't know if this is actually true or not, but I heard that Ollie took a swing at the mailman, who'd had enough of Ollie's threats, and he ran him over with the mail truck. I hope it's true. Only because it's a really awesome story. And it proves my point that geese are dangerous, hideous, vicious, mean little f***ers!! If it isn't true, well...then, it should be. So, there.

Which brings me back to my building's geese problem. These geese leave bombs everywhere and have had the pleasure of laughing at many a human who has stepped in a pile of goosepoop and walked it into our building. An adult goose is practically the size of a toddler (and just as mean, probably), so when a group (a gaggle?) of geese are walking in my direction, I hightail it the other way. They're like your run-of-the-mill street thugs. Loud, obnoxious, walking around like their shit don't stink. I can't really tell if it does or not, but it's freakin' everywhere...I mean, sweet Jesus - have you seen our parking lot?

Anyway, our building also has a retention pond and a resident alligator. He doesn't mess with the geese either. He probably knows they'd kick his ass, too.

UPDATE: Cousin Jim tells me that Ollie was hit by a car in the middle of the night. So the Federal Government had nothing to do with it.