He is a moron.
I mean, I love him. But he's an idiot. Other Chinese gander owners assure me he'll "calm down" when he hits around seven, eight years old. Well, he IS about that, despite the fact he was determined to never get that old.
It started with the trash can. There was an old steel trash can, half smooshed. It was legacy to the truism that the hardest thing in the world to throw away is a trash can. It was waiting to be cut up so it could be thrown away.
One dark, moonless night, we heard the strangest thing: Thumping, metallic rattling, bonking, goose squalling. We ran out with flashlights to find Ben. Bloody faced! Oh GOD LOOSE DOGS!!!
...No. He was attacking the trash can, and lost.
Prior to this, the dumbest thing he'd done was tease our big dog. He'd wait till she was sleeping, sneak up on her and HAUNK. She'd jump, freak out, and he'd run away. Till she figured this out and waited for him. As he crept up, she leaped to her feet, barking. He panicked, ran blindly, and got his head wedged in the rear spring of my old car. I had to lift the car to get his head out and he fainted during the process.
Okay, so, we took the trash can away. No more problem, right?
Then we found him out there attacking the metal water basin. This was lighter, he flipped it up and over him. Ben=0 Various metal items=3.
I went out back to dig up some weeds. Ben flipped and attacked the shovel. Before I could stop, I'd shoveled out a good handful of his chest feathers.
I use a metal pail to feed the animals with. This is a pail. FULL OF YUMMY FOOD. Yeah. It's evil. He came storming at me to attack it. I wasn't paying attention and dropped a full feed bucket onto the nit wit, who had a Donald Duck worthy spaz fit over this.
Then, I walked into the kitchen and found one of my yard sculptures in the kitchen. It's a rebar and old farm implement "crane", it rocks back and forth on springs, it's cute. I sighed and went out to see what damage Ben had wrought upon himself this time.
Bloody face and missing feathers, that yard art was tougher than he thought.
I suppose if we had another male goose, he'd be able to get his goosely ganderings out by battling it out for dominance and all that, except that our old rooster, Rusty, used to regularly kick his feathery butt, too. (Maybe we shouldn't have given him a metal related name.)
Oh well. Ben terrorized the meter reader yesterday, till I grabbed him and hauled him back to the house. I dread if Ben ever manages to really hurt himself or get sick, taking him to the vet would probably leave a lot of mental scars.
horizonchaser has 99 problems but a goose ain't one. QWP.