Read Part 1 of this story.

My family wasn’t really good at pets. We had lots of animals in our lives, but most of our pets were birds–as in ducks. Not your typical pet. After living with us for a few years, the birds were usually rehomed (as the term is now) to farms with larger flocks.

My family did go typical once when my parents got us a puppy. Four little kids (I think we were all younger than 10) and a rambunctious puppy ended up being too much for my parents. They rehomed the dog. I still remember how my stomach hurt for weeks and weeks after losing my dog. It still hurts today decades later when I think of him. (And I hope in writing this post I don’t hurt my parents’ feelings).

I’m sharing this story to explain how, several years after the puppy, Bill the goose (gander) went from a family bird (which you saw in Part 1), to my pet, to a family pet once again (below, my Dad with Bill).

We’d had Bill for a few years. His duck friend Magellan had disappeared one spring night, and he’d been alone for a little while. My Dad, who’d been taking care of him, mentioned that he thought it was time that he found a farm for Bill.

I said, “No you can’t.”

Dad said, “Then he’s yours. You have to take care of him. Give him fresh water in the morning and at night. And you have to let him out of his pen everyday and spend at least 30 minutes with him.”

I said, “Okay.”

Now, I’m sure my parents thought there was no way I would stick with it. However, getting rid of our dog affected me more than they realized. There was no way I was letting them get rid of Bill.

I did exactly what my Dad said. Every afternoon when I came home from school, I would go to the pen in the backyard and let Bill out for a wander. We’d walk around the coop so that we had a straight shot from the backyard to the front yard. Then I’d start running.

Bill would open his big white wings and run behind me. He was an Embden, a breed that is primarily raised for meat. He was not the best flyer, but if the wind was right he could sometimes get up as high as my shoulder. Once in the front yard, Bill would decorously fold his wings along his back, and the two of us would walk down the road. At the corner, we’d turn around and come home.

After awhile, it was just accepted that Bill wasn’t going anywhere. He got a new duck friend, Buster. He got his summer trips to the cottage every weekend. He got a bathtub in his pen so he could swim whenever he wanted. When I got my first boyfriend–Matt–he got to take care of Bill when my family went camping (thank you, Matt).

Bill became, once again, the family’s pet.

Geese can live 20 years or longer. Bill was nowhere near that old when he died. Maybe 7. I’m not sure now. One day, he stopped eating. I tried hand feeding him, force feeding him, bringing him inside for a warm bath (it was winter and his outdoor bathtub–which he loved–had been drained for a few months). Nothing roused him.

Even though he was the family’s goose, at the core he was mine. So when I made the decision not to take him to a vet, my Dad didn’t try to change my mind. This was pre-internet, and searching for a vet that would treat a goose was much more challenging than it is today. As well, I still considered Bill a farm animal, and as harsh as it sounds I have different standards for farm animals than I do for other pets.

When Bill died, my Dad was very upset. He felt he should have found a vet for Bill. I remember my Dad tearing up as we stood over Bill’s grave in the backyard. This demonstrated that Bill was truly a family pet.

And maybe that’s why for the most part I was okay (although I’m sniffling and crying now as I write this). Bill had got to live out his life with his family. His whole life. And that’s all I wanted.

This goose (gander, really) and my long-ago little dog ended up being big forces in my life. They influenced how I thought about adopting a dog. They influence how I care for Ralph and Baxter now. Bill is the reason I want to have my own birds here at the farm. And you saw last week that Bill even influenced my choice of art for this house.

Last week, I said I would post the story of Bill. Today is Part 1. You can read Part 2 here.

He was known as Bill.

He’d been given the name before he was even born. It had been scrawled in pencil on the outside of the large white egg.

Each day as the egg was turned the name would disappear and reappear.

After more than a month in the warm incubator, a crack appeared in the egg. Bill was ready to get out. But he wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own.

Carefully the man chipped away at the shell, breaking off small shards with his fingernails. He stopped and waited, hoping Bill could wiggle his way free. It took a long time and more help, but finally the small gosling hatched.

His dark feathers were wet and plastered flat.

His fragile pink skin showed through.

For nearly a day, he laid on a soft cloth in a small cardboard box. He was too weak to move, unable to even raise his head. The man put a light bulb over the box to keep the small bird warm.

This is how Bill, my goose (gander), came into the world.

Bill soon found his feet. He was part of a small hatch–the only goose–and shared his box with just one duckling. But from the start, Bill considered himself more human than bird.

From his home in the corner of the kitchen he would keep an eye on what the family was up to. At night when the family went to bed, we couldn’t sleep because his piercing peep-peep-peeps would fill the house. Batman and Robin had just been released so we cut George Clooney out of the cereal box and taped him to the side of Bill’s box for company. It seemed to help.

Soon, Bill was big enough to move outside to the coop and its covered run. He and his duck friend, Magellan, made their home there.

Even though he lived outside, Bill made sure he was in on pretty much everything the family was doing.

Photo bombing.

Snow forting.

Gardening.

Cottaging.

A few years later, though, things changed.

Read Part 2 here.