“Goose is dead.”

Those are the words that would have been appropriate for the situation had I not hit my brakes.

Sunday morning I was on my way to help take my sister back to college (read: carry heavy things and set up electronic equipment) travelling east on 64. The iPod was providing the soundtrack, and I was at the lead of the left lane with clear road ahead and clear skies above. Out of the grassy, wooded median I saw something move and watched as a single, solitary goose emerged from the brush, waddling towards the road. I was perplexed. I’ve never seen a goose by itself and I continued watching as it waddled off of the grass, onto the shoulder, and then took a step onto the road maybe 25 yards in front of me. I was doing 75.

I pushed hard on the brakes and the car lurched forward as I suddenly slowed. The goose, now cured of any constipation it may or may not have been experiencing, turned 180 degrees and waddled back into the brush with all the speed and dexterity of a fat man running with his pants around his ankles. I had visions of goose splattered all over the front and underside of my mother’s car (which I was driving at the time) as I was slowing, and just as quickly as the goose ran back into the woods I imagined myself standing behind another goose that’s looking in a mirror and saying “Goose is dead.”

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