Rosemary the Goose

The summer we lived “up Pinkham” (remember the trailer with no running water or electricity?) we had a goose named Rosemary. Turned out Rosemary was actually a gander, but we decided to keep calling him Rosemary anyway. 

Rosemary liked to attack people when they were out, you know, trying to live their lives. Rumor had it that one of my sisters had teased him and that’s why he became so aggressive. It might just as well have been because with a name like Rosemary he felt like he had to assert his masculine dominance. Really though, have you met a goose? They don’t need a villain origin story, they were born that way babyyy. 

As I mentioned, I was around eight years old at the time, and quite terrorized by this goose. I don’t know how big he was in actuality, although I do think he was a large goose, and since I was a kid, he likely seemed even larger than he was. He also roamed free across our property, so there wasn’t a place outdoors where one could be truly safe from him. 

Since I grew up without TV, and we didn’t have close neighbors, I spent a lot of time roaming around outside, poking through the various piles of junk around the property. There was also a garage full of random stuff that had been left by people over the years. One of the benefits of being a poor rural person is living on properties with lots of junk to sift through for treasures, and that, along with pretending to drive old cars or motorcycles left lying around and making up stories, was one of my favorite pastimes as a kid. 

Thankfully, the garage provided both amusement and respite from the reigning terror that was Rosemary The Goose. However, it was also a ways out from the house, and the space in between it and the house was often occupied by said goose. Ergo, getting to it required a stealth mission. 

I’d poke my head out of the house first, both looking for signs of the goose, and listening for its strident squawks. If he wasn’t in sight, but could be heard, it was a matter of trying to figure out by the sound just how close he might be, and if I had time to run to the garage before he could get to me, should he notice my presence. 

If the coast seemed clear, I’d run down the lane to the garage, eyes darting, heart pounding. The dust on the lane could get inches thick, and I can still feel the way it felt under my bare feet as I ran, kicking up a cloud behind me until I could slam the door behind me, safe at last. 

I wasn’t always safe from him though. There were chores to be done outside, and that meant that more than once I had to run back into the house shrieking as he flapped and hissed at me, neck outstretched and beak open. I’m pretty sure I cried about it more than once. 

One morning, he got me. Well, he got my skirt anyway. I guess I should be thankful we always had to wear skirts at that time, because it provided a bit of a buffer. He latched onto the edge of my skirt and wouldn’t let go. I was scared but also mad. I’d had it with that goose. I reached out and grabbed his neck and squeezed. Don’t worry, this isn’t the story of me killing a goose. I must have only had my hands on him for a few seconds at most before he let go, and so did I, and then he left in a hurry. 

I don’t condone violence, but all I’m going to say is that Rosemary never bothered me again.

Incidentally, I recently found a few little treasures left behind in our new rental house. Took me right back :)