Monday, February 21, 2005
It's official
I am the biggest baby, like, ever. At least when it comes to waterfowl, that is. I thought I was doing so well, too. The other geese had left the lake, and Herbert and Judy and I were getting along just fine--each respecting the other's personal space. In fact, I even passed Judy (or Herbert, I don't know) on the path today at lunch, coming within a few inches of her, and neither of us batted an eye. (Although can geese actually bat their eyes? Whatever.) The point is, I had finally made my peace with our fine feathered friends, and I felt pretty good about it.
All that changed this afternoon, when I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather and do another lap around the lake. About halfway around, I ran into Herbert and Judy, said hello as usual, and went on my merry way. But then, when I was almost back to my building, I spotted them. Remember when Doug was talking about the birds he'd seen in Myrtle Beach, the ones that swim in the molten lakes of hell? Yeah, there were two of them (or two of their relatives, because they weren't quite as scary as the ones Doug described) in the middle of the path. One was standing slightly behind the other, so it would take some pretty deft maneuvering to get around them both. As I was trying to work out a strategy, the one in the back started making its way toward me, emitting silent gasps of terror. (I guess it was trying to quack? I don't know. It was frightening.) It came and stood next to its mate, forming an impregnable fortress across the path. So I did what any normal, bird-fearing person would do in this situation: I turned and ran like hell in the other direction, praying that they wouldn't follow me.
Shut up. It was seriously scary.
I am the biggest baby, like, ever. At least when it comes to waterfowl, that is. I thought I was doing so well, too. The other geese had left the lake, and Herbert and Judy and I were getting along just fine--each respecting the other's personal space. In fact, I even passed Judy (or Herbert, I don't know) on the path today at lunch, coming within a few inches of her, and neither of us batted an eye. (Although can geese actually bat their eyes? Whatever.) The point is, I had finally made my peace with our fine feathered friends, and I felt pretty good about it.
All that changed this afternoon, when I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather and do another lap around the lake. About halfway around, I ran into Herbert and Judy, said hello as usual, and went on my merry way. But then, when I was almost back to my building, I spotted them. Remember when Doug was talking about the birds he'd seen in Myrtle Beach, the ones that swim in the molten lakes of hell? Yeah, there were two of them (or two of their relatives, because they weren't quite as scary as the ones Doug described) in the middle of the path. One was standing slightly behind the other, so it would take some pretty deft maneuvering to get around them both. As I was trying to work out a strategy, the one in the back started making its way toward me, emitting silent gasps of terror. (I guess it was trying to quack? I don't know. It was frightening.) It came and stood next to its mate, forming an impregnable fortress across the path. So I did what any normal, bird-fearing person would do in this situation: I turned and ran like hell in the other direction, praying that they wouldn't follow me.
Shut up. It was seriously scary.
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