Stingray Roberts' Blog: The Goose

LAST RITES
OFFICIAL BLOG of
STINGRAY ROBERTS

The Goose

    The 5th of May— Cinco de Mayo as some people call it. Or in other places of the country they call it... the same fucking thing. Now anybody that's heard of this crazy holiday knows it's a time to rock out with your cock out. However those of us who have been arrested on this very day know that it's smart to either get out of town or stay at home. Now there I was caught in the middle of a dilemma: risk jail time and do the same old shit I would probably never remember, or take my brother Dave who was here from Detroit playing the snowbird role, on the camping trip of his fucking wildest dreams of insanity.
Now, there's a couple of things you need to know about me before this story progresses. Number one, I'm a humanitarian— I love everyone (not in that way, except for some of you... you know, the ladies.) Number two, I love all creatures, big and small (and not like that either.) Oh, and number three, I love my mother. So the story begins...

    I took my brother Dave up to Lynx Lake in Prescott, Arizona for a trip for his birthday because a friend of mine said we'd catch mad amounts of fish in the area. I brought my lucky Michigan jacket and was sure we'd be feasting like kings in the wild.
When we got to the lake we found out that the eagles of Lynx Lake were having babies. It was fucking awesome to see so many of the winged monsters, but come to find out half of the lake was closed down due to safety concerns regarding parturition of the protected species.
So we said, "Screw it, we'll find a different place to camp."
After a fatty of the purple kush and an ice cold Budweiser we stumbled upon the emerald forest— which was really just the name of the street. We found a campground full of Nature's wildlife and old-timey gold panners. When I tried explaining to my brother the dangers of wildlife in Arizona compared to Michigan, he just laughed and laughed.
We proceeded to set up our new tent— the 200 square foot, three bedroom, billy-bad-ass Timberwolf. I told Dave his job was to go collect firewood. Well, that fucking A-hole came back with an entire 75-foot-tall pine tree that he had torn down with my car. We proceeded to get hammered drunk on bottles of Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels.

    Later that night when I was trying to change out a CD, I turned on the headlights to my car so I could see what I was doing. Right there in front of me was the biggest fucking javalina I have ever seen— two feet from sniffin' out my truffles. I had to have been more afraid of him than he was of me because nothing was stopping me from double fisting knives the rest of the night afraid that I might get attacked by some of Arizona's most dangerous wildlife. At the time, I was not feeling like the same animal lover I was at the beginning of this story. The night ended armed with weapons while afraid of being attacked by a fat pig who could have eaten my truffles or the pile of barf in the next campsite courtesy of my big brother.
The next day we awakened unharmed. Dave and I started the morning mixing half and half captain and cokes for breakfast. With a fishing license that we called the "Death Stamp," my brother and I hit the lake for an hour and a half without one nibble. We then decided to separate to different sides of the lake to increase our chances. Of course, we soon realized there was not a fucking fish in this lake due to the recent boom in eagle population.

    So I yelled down to my brother, "Hey man, it's your birthday. It doesn't look like we're going to eat any fish so how do you feel about goose?"
He just stared at me like I was crazy and shook his head.
"You're a fucking dumb-ass."
I replied with a nod, "We'll see about that."
As I got to the other end of the lake, I started to coax the birds with breadcrumbs and hot dogs. It wasn't long before the mother of all protectors— a four foot tall goose started eating bread right out of my hand. I looked down over to my brother, concerned that I might let him down for his birthday feast. All concerns for wildlife went out the window at that very moment. I lunged forward with a fist of fury . I grabbed that goddamn goose by the throat and twisted its head 360 degrees around then yanking up until I heard a 'POP!' I repeated this action four times in a row. I grabbed that bastard by it's neck and beat it against a rock like I was chopping wood.
Out of breath, I looked over at my brother on the other side of the lake. He was grabbing his stomach with uncontrollable laughter. I looked back at the goose, presumably dead, and I started to feel remorse for what I had done.
Then the craziest fucking thing happened. That wily little bastard had been faking dead! He jumped onto his feet and hauled ass into the lake vocalizing it's fury with a, 'Honk, honk, honk, honk!'
With that, my brother and I went to the grocery store to bring back beer and brats.
Happy birthday, Dave.

    Now I know what you're thinking, 'that is one sick story.'
There's a light at the end of the tunnel, my friend. I was given the chance to redeem my standing with nature.
With the exception of the incident with the goose, it was a trip that would be fondly remembered. It was such a good time in fact, that I invited a friend out to that very same location that my brother and I had been 3 weeks prior. We packed up our gear and hit the road. Once again I began explaining the dangers of wildlife in Arizona, and once again I was laughed at. This time all the more, since my friend did not believe the story he had been told concerning a certain goose of the area. When we arrived at Lynx Lake, my friend got out of the car and began walking towards the lake, eager to view and enjoy what promised to be a beautiful site.
As he peered over the cement wall at the lake below he yelled back to me, "Ray, you'd better come here."
I walked towards the lake wall wondering what could have stopped my friend dead in his tracks.
Even before I saw it, I heard an evil hiss emanating from below. A giant white goose, even fiercer than I had remembered was commanding a platoon of various bird-life ordering a retreat from my advance. That same white goose had seen my Michigan jacket and remembered that fateful day three weeks before.
"I told you so!" I yelled to my friend. I was both happy I had proof of the story and sad that the goose obviously still had hard feelings about our previous transgression. I realized at that moment, I could not leave until I had bridged the gap I had created between man and beast.
We fished for some time throughout the day, but my mind was not on the good time I'd thought I would be having. It was on the goose.

    The next morning, I donned my Michigan jacket and was ready to somehow find a way to apologize to the scariest goose I had ever encountered. I found him back among the other birds in a cove around the far side of the lake. I approached the group with bread, corn, and bits of hot dog. Nothing could entice the great beast, however the other ducks did not understand the message Mother Goose was attempting to relay to them with a series of honks and hisses. The almighty goose flapped it's massive wings in a fit of rage as he let out what was surely a war cry signaling his attack while desperately trying to deter the other birds from approaching me. As the ducks fled East, the goose advanced West.
So there I was face to face with the fearsome feathered creature. I tried to feed him while apologizing over and over again. He would not accept the propitiative vittles. It was only until I broke down in tears still apologizing to the great bird, expressing how deeply sorry I was regarding our unfortunate encounter, that the animal must have sensed my sincerity for he finally approached and let out a friendly quack. As far as I could tell, 'Quackers' had forgiven me. He slowly swam off, bobbing his head on his crooked neck. I felt at ease and we left the site that very evening.