The Pin Test

The war against the geese has not been going well. Mrs. Cheney decided to nest right beneath the owl; Cheney is attacking anyone who comes within a thirty-foot radius. We have to walk right through his territory to get to Mazurka.

This year he’s more aggressive than the last – he comes back repeatedly, and will hover mid-air, attacking you as if he’s a hot air balloon. No, hot air balloon is too friendly – think more Nazi zeppelin. Sunday afternoon, Mark’s out there boxing with airborne Cheney, while the Mrs. stands beside her nest, not leaving it for a second. They are steadfast parents, to be sure. Once we get to the other side, we find an audience of three teenagers hanging out in the warm spring afternoon. “Looks like an attack bird,” one of them says to us. They're laughing; they’ve been watching Cheney attack people all afternoon.

It’s hard to describe how much this bothers me. I’m not afraid of animals – I like spiders, I can tolerate snakes, and unless it’s a bear, I won’t carry mace. But I don’t like the idea of being repeatedly attacked every time I walk to or from my home.

So I came up with an alternative plan: “I’m going to row the dinghy to the other dock,” I told Mark, "and avoid them altogether."

My husband thinks this is unneccessary, and keeps trying to convince me it isn’t that bad. Monday morning, leaving for work, he says, “I’m going to use the pin test.” He puts a safety pin between his fingers and out we go. The Cheneys are grazing, away from their nest, and as soon as we get near them, they start squawking and running for their homestead (apparently Mrs. Cheney hasn’t laid eggs yet, or she’d never leave it for a second). She gets up by her nest, while Cheney keeps sweeping down on us, and eventually gets close enough for Mark to stick him with the pin. Cheney lands beside us, stunned, and for a second the four of us all stare at each other – what just happened? Then Cheney squawks and flies down into the water, but he’s no longer hissing, and we go on our way out to the street.

“The pin test worked,” Mark says, exuberant. “I got the idea from when I was a kid.”

“Why don’t you start carrying the pen knife you did in kindergarten,” I say. I don’t find this all that funny.

“I don’t want to draw blood. The pin hurts just enough, but it won’t draw blood – it will heal before a cut would. I figure a couple more times of the pin test, and he’ll learn to stay away from us. It’s good security, too – nobody in their right mind is going to pass by that goose.”

“Exactly,” I say. “I’m going to start taking the dinghy.”

“Don’t you think that’s extreme?” Mark says.

“As extreme as being attacked every time you leave your boat, and sticking a goose with a pin?”

“Okay,” he agrees, “I’ll get the boat out for you tonight.”

So now, instead of simply walking off the dock to the parking lot, I'm going to pile my stuff into the dinghy and row twenty feet to the opposite dock, tie up, and walk around.

I've lived on Mazurka for six months now. I've weathered bad plumbing, frozen pipes, inclimate weather. I can't believe it's a goose named Cheney who's going to bring me down.