Sunday bird blogging

I am not fond of geese in general or Canada geese in particular, but I always manage to get suckered in by goslings. They're cute like all babies, at least until Mama or Papa Goose takes offense and starts hissing.

My mother hated geese, and described having been chased by a goose when she was a child in Ireland whenever the subject came up. When I was young, I laughed at the story, but I filed it away under Isn't Mom Silly?  Outside of a Hitchcock movie, why would anyone be afraid of a bird?

This state of innocence persisted until I was well in my twenties, when I made the mistake of standing by a lake in New Hampshire in the vicinity of a large white goose. It ignored me at first, then without warning -- or provocation -- it attacked. I was so shocked that this, this bird was actually BITING me, that it took me a minute to react.

I assumed it would go away if I shouted or waved my arms. It did not. So I ran. It chased me all the way back to my car, and I drove away having learned two valuable lessons: Geese are mean. And they bite hard.

These particular goslings were in Jackson Hole.