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Twittering, always incessant twittering.

Tiny black and white chickadees swarmed Sally’s dog bowl at the base of the large pine tree that stood tall, just outside the front door. Sally was nowhere to be seen – she was probably sleeping under the house, in the dust.

Robin Hood crouched in the nearby gooseberry bushes. He was a master bowman, the best of the merry men of the mountain, and could easily hit any target, any size. He could knock the dust off a fly’s eye – if he wanted to, which he didn’t.

Robin’s bow was blue, a sleek compound he received for saving the life of some random princess. He didn’t remember her name, and it didn’t matter. Now he hunted, princess forgotten.

The infernal twittering beasts were pillaging the village’s food supply, but they had one major disadvantage. In a greedy effort to gorge themselves, they failed to set up a guard. Robin knew this would be their fatal downfall, and he grinned wickedly. Today was they day the tiny horde would meet their doom. They had evaded him in the past, but that was because he was just learning. Now, he was finally a true bow-master.

It was morning, and Robin had feasted on sumptuous vittles – a repast truly fit for a king. The huge oak table groaned under the load of all kinds of delicacies, each one liberated the day before from the castle of the evil tax collector. Breakfast over, he staked out his attack position.

Mr. Hood was in a good mood after such a breakfast, and almost didn’t mind the surprise breeze that had turned aside his last two shots. At least he was not angry about it – these things sometimes happened to the best of archers, no matter what the legends said. No sense in dwelling on the past. The twittering cloud of birds was about to meet the third and final arrow in his quiver, the one that would bring an end to at least one member of their evil flying clan.

Robin pulled back the bowstring, sighting along the shaft, and breathed a slow breath. In. Out. He prepared to let fly – and just as he released the arrow, the front door banged open and Dad stepped out. The arrow glanced wide.

“Want to come along?” Dad said, walking towards the truck. “I need to go into town.”

Grey stood up, his carefully-selected hiding place given away. The chattering flock of chickadees fluttered, free to live another day.

Dad was back. Grey hoped things would settle down and get back to normal. Dad had been gone a week, and Mom wouldn’t tell him why. It happened now and then.

Dad told him that they needed to go to the hardware store, and then they would pay a visit to a friend.

Ash wasn’t coming. He didn’t finish his chores in time, and he stood in the doorway, grumping as Grey climbed into the old Jeep. He would have rather gone than stay home with Mom and the baby.

They drove down the mountain, across the valleys and into town. Dad picked up a box of screws and a bracket at the corner hardware store, then they climbed back in the truck.

After a short drive north, they waited at the border, and the guard came out to talk to them. He recognized the truck, and said hello to Grey, who crossed the border daily on his way to school. Dad and the border guard exchanged a few pleasantries. Then they were through, the striped gate lowering quietly behind them.

Dad drove, winding their way up into the mountains on the Canadian side. Grey enjoyed the swooping telephone lines, and the bright green fields that rolled past, dotted with hay bales. The truck clattered through small aspen glens, through pine woods, over wooden bridges, and up mountain switchbacks until they reached their destination. The farm was up in the hills, a cluster of fading red barns surrounded by pale green meadows.

The farm was owned by Old Wally. Grey knew his daughter from school. She was nice, as girls went; but her dad had three times the charm.

Old Wally had a funny accent, he was from some European country, and Grey loved to hear him talk. He smiled and talked a whole lot. His gray-red hair merged with his beard, radiating outward in all directions, like his head was exploding. Grey liked Old Wally.

They were given a tour of the farm, and Grey learned that Old Wally was proud of his cows. He offered them some milk and a tub of butter to take home. Grey sniffed – it smelled funny, like it was going sour, but it was hard to tell here on the farm. The very air smelled like fresh cow pies. He didn’t think he’d enjoy this butter on their daily popcorn. Dad accepted the butter despite the smell, but declined the gift of milk.

“It won’t last the trip home, and we have no way to keep it cool” Dad told Old Wally.

The hour dragged on, Dad and Wally endlessly talking. Grey looked hopefully around for Old Wally’s daughter, but she was nowhere to be found, so he would have no one to play with today. He trudged behind the men, bored near to death, as they wandered over the small farm, discussing the finer details of animal husbandry.

The real reason they were here was finally apparent. Old Wally ushered them into a small outbuilding. It was full of noise, and geese. Grey could barely hear Dad and Old Wally discussing a price through the loud din of honking. Old Wally suddenly lunged, expertly snatching one of the geese, a large white one. He handed it to Dad, who took it into his arms, unsure of how exactly to hold the big bird. Grey followed the men out of the pen into the brilliant sunlight, trying not to step in anything squishy.

The goose was coming home with them, and it was not the least bit pleased with this new chapter in its life. Dad had it tightly in control now, held under one arm like a set of bagpipes, but nothing could stop the goose’s long neck from craning as it struggled. It looked back, honking loudly at his family left behind in the goose pen. A chorus of answering honks blasted out. They were honking their goodbyes, no doubt.

As they passed the stables, Old Wally hollered.

“Billy! Need a box for thiss’ere goose!”

Billy the farmhand strolled out of the stables, wiping his hands on his pants. He’d been in the middle of cleaning out a stall and welcomed the interruption.

“There be an old fruit box in the tool-shed,” Wally told him. “Fetch it for us, that’s a good lad.”

The goose had to have something to ride in. They couldn’t just throw it into the back of the truck after all, it would get away for sure.

“Sure thing,” Billy said. “Nice to meet you sir,” he added to Dad.

The goose eyed the farmhand suspiciously, its expressionless eyes somehow conveying sinister motives. Maybe it knew the humans were conspiring against it. Perhaps the farmhand and the goose had some unpleasant history, because when Billy walked past, the goose made its move.

Dad was holding it tight, and it couldn’t get away – but the goose had an impressive extended reach. Faster than a chicken jumping onto the porch, faster than a sheep bucking off a small boy, probably faster than lightning itself, the goose thrust out its neck towards the poor farmhand. Before anyone could blink, the raging goose delivered approximately eighty-four vicious bites right onto Billy’s lower lip.

The unfortunate farmhand threw up his hands and turned his head away with a shout of alarm – but it was much too late. His lip began to bleed profusely, swelling up to the size of a young garden cucumber.

Salty tears followed Billy’s blood into the mud as the goose calmly, almost triumphantly, turned to point his orange beak at Dad. Dad did not hesitate even for an instant. He leaped back, and flung the goose away from him, hard.

Grey flinched. His heart stopped for a second as a sudden blast of huge, white wings exploded in front of him, viciously beating the air. Feathers scattered as the goose, tasting new-found freedom, half-ran, half-flew back to its family in the goose pen.

“Blast it – con’sarn that bird!” Old Wally stuttered, barely catching himself from blurting out wild, salty words in front of his guests.

The farmhand went stumbling into the house, blubbering, to inspect his ruined face in the mirror.

Dad and Old Wally grimly caught the reluctant goose again, with no small effort, and a few curses. Old Wally stuffed it, rather unceremoniously, into a burlap bag. He tied off the opening with twine. It was done.

“We’re not ‘aving anymore of THAT now, you… uh, scallywag!” Old Wally snorted.

He clapped Dad on the shoulder and shook Grey’s hand firmly. They tossed the goose into the back of the truck. The burlap struggled and flopped and hissed, but there was no lashing out this time. Its fate had been sealed – it was going home with Grey and Dad.

They climbed into the cab, and set off for home.

When they arrived, Grey burst out of the Jeep and ran around to fetch the bag from the back. He couldn’t wait to show Asher – new animals were always fun, and this one was going to be a real firecracker. Asher came out with Mom and Bethany, who toddled along in her diaper.

“Stand back Beth!” Dad snapped.

As the family watched, Dad took the burlap sack from Grey and carefully untied it. Grey watched with anticipation – that goose would be steaming mad! Dad upended the burlap and the angry goose flopped out onto the driveway.

It ruffled its feathers into place and quickly took stock of its situation, eyeing Dad and Grey with a hard look of malice. Grey stood safely back, whacking-stick now in hand. Dad backpedaled a few steps, and Sally, true herd-dog that she was, took on a ready stance.

Ash laughed, and Bethany clapped her chubby hands. They had a goose! What fun this would be.

Whatever Dad’s original plans for that goose were, Grey would never know, and he never thought to ask. As soon as it spied Bethany, something inside the goose snapped. Perhaps Beth, who was not much larger than a goose herself, reminded it of some old foe, or maybe it was just looking for an easy target upon which it could exact revenge for all of its humiliation. No one would ever know.

The goose charged. In less than a second it crossed the ten feet between it and little Beth, who only had time to scream and turn to run. The goose, neck outstretched, bill ready to exact lightning-fast bites, was nearly at the moment of sweet revenge. The humans would pay today – again!

The goose grossly miscalculated.

Just as it figured it was close enough to deliver its snapping bill onto Beth’s fleeing behind, a foot shot out, felling it with one solid blow.

Mom kicked that big white bird straight up into eternal unconsciousness, and Dad wielded the double-bit ax which sent it to the cook-pot. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Rarely did Dad and Mom work so efficiently as a team.

At dinner, Grey sat glumly poking his fork into the delicious goose. He wanted to have that goose. He pictured all the things that he and Ash could have done to it. He knew that it would have been fun to chase.

The excitement of danger had passed, and he sighed.

Dad looked over at him. “What’s the matter?”

Grey thought for a moment.

“Dad, can we get another goose?”