licorice
04-28-2010, 11:55 AM
It is twelve months since we issued our first bulletin on Hoover and it is time for reflection and review.
I have been Googling his history and lineage and I have determined that he is an Embden goose whose family originated in Germany or Holland. So it seems that he is either a Hun or a Dutchman, but the tribe have been domiciled in England for several centuries. This being so, he is entitled to call himself a Pom. Estimates of the life span of Embdens vary between fifteen to twenty five years. This statistic is uncertain because most geese tend to be cooked somewhat earlier. Hoover was an adult when we came to Toad Hall three years ago, so he must be at least five and in the prime of his life.
Hoover’s ancestry is of interest to us but it is not one of his priorities. He tends to live from day to day or, more precisely, from meal to meal. While Trish was away in Australia, Hoover and I had time to do some male bonding. He will now take his slice of bread from my hand and I have lacerated fingers to prove it. He was unexpectedly gracious when he had to surrender Trish’s side of the bed on her return.
The natural diet of a goose is simply grass and we have watched Hoover trundling over the lawn with his head down and that large, sharp beak scissoring rapidly. He is reasonably efficient as a feathered lawn mower but, I think, he regards grass as a bit of salad on the side for the main course of bread or poultry food. We supply him with the bread and he steals the poultry food from the pigeons. Trish has maternal feelings for her pigeons and I have often seen her lecturing Hoover with much arm waving and finger pointing. This has little effect and the minute her back is turned he charges the feeding pigeons with neck outstretched and strident battle cries.
Before she left for Oz, Trish recruited a platoon of local ladies who volunteered to look in on me from time to time. Ostensibly they were concerned for my welfare but I believe they were really a secret service under instruction to report if I was doing my chores and how I was behaving generally. One such spy even brought her own tracker dog. It was a small animal and she told me that the breed originated in Tibet. Be that as it may, Hoover still noticed the trespasser. He stood, legs spread, outside the lounge door and pecked sharply on the glass pane. The Tibetan barked and advanced until they stood beak to nose and separated only by the glass. Hoover was incensed. He raised himself on his orange, webbed feet, stretched his neck and glared down from his full height. He shrieked abuse and stirred up a storm of leaves as he flapped his wings. It was an awesome performance and I felt a flush of paternal pride – goosebumps, in fact. The Tibetan retreated to the refuge between his mistress’s ankles and masked his concern by scratching listlessly.
Hoover is adept at making me feel selfish. On cold evenings he will tap timidly on the glass lounge door. When I open the curtains he cocks his head to one side and fixes me with a blue-eyed stare. He throat-chortles pathetically and ensures that I can see the lavender shrub bending before the winter gale behind him. I know that if I opened the door he would waddle off into the night so I have to conclude that he is merely winding me up.
Since the last bulletin we have erected a low picket fence to keep Hoover from the paved area outside the conservatory. It is now a pleasure to step outdoors without slithering in goose poo. Hoover does not see it that way and fiercely resents this restriction on his freedom of movement. He paces up and down the barrier, clucking with frustration and peering longingly at the new exclusion zone. Once or twice he has tried to fly over the fence and has crashed, painfully, into the kitchen wall.
The pigeons thrive and have produced more youngsters. Sadly, the kestrels continue to strike. Two days ago we witnessed the demise of Stripey and watched as a kestrel ate him on the front lawn. If my air rifle had been handy, kestrels would have been endangered by one more unit. This area teems with large, plump wood pigeons and I see no valid reason why kestrels focus on our flock.
Our three llamas have survived the harsh winter and are enjoying the spring grazing. Marmalade spat at me from four feet and smeared my face and glasses with llama juice. If only kestrels were much larger. It just goes to show that Marmalade continues to be obnoxious and we continue to hate each other very much.
Last evening, Trish and a friend were driving down a country lane when they came across two lost and bleating lambs. A large mother sheep was shouting from a nearby field. Trish is ever ready to aid distressed animals and pursued the runaways down the lane. One wriggled under the fence and rejoined the flock but the other skipped down the road on a mission of his own. Trish chased the fugitive up a bank and through a jungle of nettles. She lost her footing and rolled down the bank through the same nettle patch. Despite her wounds she grabbed the lamb and dropped him over the fence into his field. She returned home dishevelled and writhing. Her legs were still suffering from Aussie sand-fly bites and the combination with the nettle stings was something special. Someone suggested that she treat them with vinegar. This may have helped but I was forced to move into the spare room that night.
Personally, I have a thing about sheep. They remind me of llamas, have baleful eyes and their jaws are always working. I have faced buffalo and rhino in Africa without a qualm, but put me in a field with a flock of sheep and I quake with terror.
27.04.09
I have been Googling his history and lineage and I have determined that he is an Embden goose whose family originated in Germany or Holland. So it seems that he is either a Hun or a Dutchman, but the tribe have been domiciled in England for several centuries. This being so, he is entitled to call himself a Pom. Estimates of the life span of Embdens vary between fifteen to twenty five years. This statistic is uncertain because most geese tend to be cooked somewhat earlier. Hoover was an adult when we came to Toad Hall three years ago, so he must be at least five and in the prime of his life.
Hoover’s ancestry is of interest to us but it is not one of his priorities. He tends to live from day to day or, more precisely, from meal to meal. While Trish was away in Australia, Hoover and I had time to do some male bonding. He will now take his slice of bread from my hand and I have lacerated fingers to prove it. He was unexpectedly gracious when he had to surrender Trish’s side of the bed on her return.
The natural diet of a goose is simply grass and we have watched Hoover trundling over the lawn with his head down and that large, sharp beak scissoring rapidly. He is reasonably efficient as a feathered lawn mower but, I think, he regards grass as a bit of salad on the side for the main course of bread or poultry food. We supply him with the bread and he steals the poultry food from the pigeons. Trish has maternal feelings for her pigeons and I have often seen her lecturing Hoover with much arm waving and finger pointing. This has little effect and the minute her back is turned he charges the feeding pigeons with neck outstretched and strident battle cries.
Before she left for Oz, Trish recruited a platoon of local ladies who volunteered to look in on me from time to time. Ostensibly they were concerned for my welfare but I believe they were really a secret service under instruction to report if I was doing my chores and how I was behaving generally. One such spy even brought her own tracker dog. It was a small animal and she told me that the breed originated in Tibet. Be that as it may, Hoover still noticed the trespasser. He stood, legs spread, outside the lounge door and pecked sharply on the glass pane. The Tibetan barked and advanced until they stood beak to nose and separated only by the glass. Hoover was incensed. He raised himself on his orange, webbed feet, stretched his neck and glared down from his full height. He shrieked abuse and stirred up a storm of leaves as he flapped his wings. It was an awesome performance and I felt a flush of paternal pride – goosebumps, in fact. The Tibetan retreated to the refuge between his mistress’s ankles and masked his concern by scratching listlessly.
Hoover is adept at making me feel selfish. On cold evenings he will tap timidly on the glass lounge door. When I open the curtains he cocks his head to one side and fixes me with a blue-eyed stare. He throat-chortles pathetically and ensures that I can see the lavender shrub bending before the winter gale behind him. I know that if I opened the door he would waddle off into the night so I have to conclude that he is merely winding me up.
Since the last bulletin we have erected a low picket fence to keep Hoover from the paved area outside the conservatory. It is now a pleasure to step outdoors without slithering in goose poo. Hoover does not see it that way and fiercely resents this restriction on his freedom of movement. He paces up and down the barrier, clucking with frustration and peering longingly at the new exclusion zone. Once or twice he has tried to fly over the fence and has crashed, painfully, into the kitchen wall.
The pigeons thrive and have produced more youngsters. Sadly, the kestrels continue to strike. Two days ago we witnessed the demise of Stripey and watched as a kestrel ate him on the front lawn. If my air rifle had been handy, kestrels would have been endangered by one more unit. This area teems with large, plump wood pigeons and I see no valid reason why kestrels focus on our flock.
Our three llamas have survived the harsh winter and are enjoying the spring grazing. Marmalade spat at me from four feet and smeared my face and glasses with llama juice. If only kestrels were much larger. It just goes to show that Marmalade continues to be obnoxious and we continue to hate each other very much.
Last evening, Trish and a friend were driving down a country lane when they came across two lost and bleating lambs. A large mother sheep was shouting from a nearby field. Trish is ever ready to aid distressed animals and pursued the runaways down the lane. One wriggled under the fence and rejoined the flock but the other skipped down the road on a mission of his own. Trish chased the fugitive up a bank and through a jungle of nettles. She lost her footing and rolled down the bank through the same nettle patch. Despite her wounds she grabbed the lamb and dropped him over the fence into his field. She returned home dishevelled and writhing. Her legs were still suffering from Aussie sand-fly bites and the combination with the nettle stings was something special. Someone suggested that she treat them with vinegar. This may have helped but I was forced to move into the spare room that night.
Personally, I have a thing about sheep. They remind me of llamas, have baleful eyes and their jaws are always working. I have faced buffalo and rhino in Africa without a qualm, but put me in a field with a flock of sheep and I quake with terror.
27.04.09