Two oversized flat feet, attached to two undersized legs, sticking out of a scruffy orb of fluffy down, supporting a great paddle beak that projects far out from its darting black eyes – - may I introduce you to Thunder, or perhaps I should call him Rolling Thunder since this three ounce baby goose rushes in gusts of fearless activity. In the two days since his hatching he has had ample opportunity to earn a power name like Thunder.  He had already accumulated a life-time's adventures.

We adopted this tiny morsel of a critter from a friend who got it from a friend at church. She saw it and its sibling crossing a road. No parent goose was in sight. The sibling made it safely to the other side, where it was promptly devoured by a neighbor’s dog. The survivor provides the occasion for this essay.

We arrived home with our new ward still debating if we should introduce our baby wild goose to our flock of adult domestic geese. (Would he be threatened or protected?)

Or should we place him in the nursery with our six baby ducks? (Would he be ostracized or develop an identity complex?).

Or should we isolate him? (He would be safe but lonely.) 

In the end, we tried all three approaches with comical lack of success.

The instant we set Thunder down in the midst of the adult geese, he emitted faint but exuberant  peeps and rushed into the flock with the gusto of a long-awaited home-coming. Just as quickly, the mass of adults raised their heads, opened their throats, and let out bellowing honks and squawks as they ran in terror from this pipsqueak barely large enough to cast a shadow. His little legs shifted into high gear as he chased the fleeing grown-ups. Mayhem erupted. Each time he gained on them he got clobbered with a huge webbed foot only to rise again and continue the pursuit. This might have gone on forever if we hadn’t felt the fear that Thunder never felt for himself. We carted him off to the baby duck pen.

The mother duck immediately removed herself from the scene and perched high where she monitored the anticipated drama from an overview position. What she observed was a scene that was dramatically innocuous. Thunder preened himself, oblivious of the potential companions and playmates in his midst. He merely acted annoyed at the interruption of his grooming routine. The ducks nuzzled him with their beaks testing if this foreign entity was a treat or a threat. They soon tired of their exploration and settled down for a nap. Some ingrained monitor told these two breeds of fowl that they were as remote as minnows and giraffes.  The air grew chilly as the sun set. Thunder would find no warmth among the ducks.

A wire cage was produced and outfitted with grain and water and one intrepid infant goose. It was placed in the mechanical room where we hoped fatigue would ease his lonely state. We bid him goodnight, walked down the long hallway, up five stairs, past a small indoor goldfish pond in the entry way of the house, continued up another five stairs for a long-delayed dinner.  As I was serving a “plop”, more unfamiliar than loud, coming from the entry way called my attention. There was Rolling Thunder, floating among the fish, happy as a goose in water!

There must be is a moral to this tale. 

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