My Pilgrim goose, Kay, has laid eight eggs so far. Her mate, Andy, is bursting with pride and marches around with his head lowered, hissing.
The nest is in the corner of the box stall belonging to Lucy’s aged horse, Birch. I’ve always thought of Birch as being like Mr. Wilson, Dennis the Menace’s elderly neighbor — grumpy but never mean with the calves and lambs and chickens constantly underfoot. However now as he eats his supper against the wall, avoiding with weary resignation the posturing and screaming of a small, belligerent goose, I’m starting to think of him as the butler Mr. Carter in Downton Abbey. It’s war time, the footmen have departed, and we are reduced to maids serving in the dining room!
It will be interesting to discover if any of the goose eggs are viable, and how many Kay’s brain deems the proper number before she sits down to incubate them. I have seen Andy’s rough attempts to copulate, generally in a half-inch mud puddle, usually ending up with both geese falling over in a helpless tangle, and have not been optimistic.