A goose died. Not one of the mean African geese, the little orange-beaked nice one. I was told that if you're going to have livestock, that sometimes you'll have deadstock.
Death is a bizarre experience, so is life I guess, two sides of one coin. One day there is an animated goose squawking around, irritating everyone who can hear it, the next there is a stiff lifeless body covered in feathers. It died of natural causes, we're guessing. It's head wasn't missing and it's feathers weren't scattered around the pen. Old age and cold weather. I hope it was at peace, that is, if geese experience peace or panic. Who's to say they do, and who's to say they don't? I wonder what the other geese thought about losing a friend. Just one less squawk to accompany their own.
Ed and I noticed the goose while doing our morning chores and being filmed by Inside Edition (that story will follow, right now I'm talking about the dead goose). We thought, aww shit Carol and Grant are not going to like this. And they didn't. Grant walked into the pen and picked the dead goose up, with his bare hands, which I thought was a little gross, and shivered at the thought of having to pick up a dead goose. Ed dug a hole, right next to where all the other dead pets are buried. The goose was put into a plastic bag and thrown in. Don't you ever laugh when a hearse goes by.
I'm thinking it'd be better not to put it in the plastic bag, so that the earth could quickly decompose it's body, take that engery and molcules back from whence they came. The cold brown dirt. Or maybe just leave it out in the field to be eaten by scavengers and worms. But no, Carol wanted to pluck some of it's feathers, they are considered special by her tribe (Carol is half Pomo Indian), but said she couldn't pluck the feathers of such a good friend. Fair enough.
So goodbye to George the goose.