The Short and Probably Not Very Happy Life of Hoppy the Gosling

Let me start, dear reader, with a warning. If you are tender hearted and quick to tears, you may want to skip this entry, for it is just plain heart-breaking. So heart-breaking, in fact, that Jeff suggested I write it in Dickensian prose, the better to inspire Little Nellian paroxysms of grief in my audience. Instead of "Hoppy," I could refer to our subject as "Isaiah Hopwood Gooseworthy, better known as 'Hoppy,' a gosling with a heart of gold." But it's been a long time since I have read any Dickens, and I just don't have the chops to send up the master or the heart to tell poor Hoppy's story as a parody. So instead, I'll give it to you straight. Just be sure you have a hankie ready.

The grounds at our workplace, also known as the "campus," feature a sheltered, sunken courtyard with trees, some shrubs, some benches, and a little fountain (although the fountain runs from late spring to early fall only). It has about equal amounts of pavers and patches of vine-like ground cover, from which the trees and shrubs spring. Early every spring, a pair of Canadian geese build a nest in one of these patches of ground cover. The goose sits on the nest while the gander stands guard. He's very consciencious... no one would dare get near the goose and her eggs. For the last few years, whatever eggs were viable hatched out over a late April weekend, and the goose, gander, and goslings had waddled up the courtyard stairs and made their way to the nearby stream by the time we all returned to work on Monday.

This year, it was different.

This year, out of the eight eggs the goose laid, four of them hatched out--three one evening about mid-week, and one the next morning. The goslings were precious.



Now, as we watched them from the windows that overlooked the courtyard, we could see that the three older goslings were strong and energetic, waddling along behind their mother as the gander gazed on proudly. And then, there was Hoppy. Hoppy was wobbly. Hoppy would try to hurry along to keep up with his siblings, trip over his little webbed feet, and go beak over tailfeathers. Sometimes he would keel over even when he was just standing there. He was so much smaller than the others, though. "He's just a day younger than they are," we reasoned amongst ourselves. "He'll catch up."

And sure enough, the next day he seemed to be a lot stronger. He wasn't listing as much, if at all. And he was able to waddle quite a ways without accidentally somersaulting, although he still seemed pretty unsteady on feet that appeared to be, well, pigeon-toed. Still, we rejoiced that he was not as impaired as he seemed to be the day before.

Later that afternoon, the goose family tried to make its exit from the courtyard. Mom and Dad led the three strong siblings up the steps and waited patiently as Hoppy tried with all his might to follow. But even his best efforts, assisted by desperate flapping of his useless little wings, were met with failure.



The family hopped off the wall next to the steps, back into the courtyard. This, in itself, was an amazing thing to watch because, although goose and gander had no trouble gliding down the five/six feet or so, the teeny goslings--once they got up the nerve--just plummeted to the pavers, all of them tumbling and rolling when they hit the ground. They all shook their feathers off and soldiered on though. And Hoppy joined them.

Later in the day, they tried again. With the same results.

That evening, there was a goose altercation in the courtyard with two interloper geese menacing the little family. Wings flapped. Heads were thrust forward aggressively, beaks jutting. There was honking aplenty. Mom and Dad defended their brood, but perhaps the invaders did more damage overnight. For, in the morning, the goose parents were still in a stand-off with the other two geese, but Hoppy was definitely the worse for wear. Or attack. Or maybe just sheer exhaustion. He lay on the concrete with his little wobbly legs sticking straight out, honking hoarsely for his parents' attention. But by this time, they just ignored him. They managed to fend off the other geese, and as soon as the coast was clear, they made a beeline for the steps. Leaving poor Hoppy lying there, alone, honking feebly.

Two of our sweet, kind-hearted Social Studies editors tried to rescue him. They went to check on Hoppy and found him (we are just assuming he's a him, by the way) desperately weak but still alive--barely. They called around to bird rescue organizations until they found one that would take him in. The woman they talked to told them how to handle him, and they picked him up, sheltered him, and placed him in one of their cars until the woman could get there. Alas, when she arrived, Hoppy was dead.

I think deep inside we all knew when we saw him stumbling around the courtyard, the obvious runt and physically compromised to boot, that he would not make it. Upon closer examination, he had something wrong with his legs AND one of his eyes. He may well have been half-blind from birth, or maybe he was attacked by the bad geese. In the end, his parents could not stick around and put the rest of their brood in danger. Still, we all wish he had been able to make it up those stairs and escape. He managed to capture all our hearts.

Rest in Peace, Isaiah Hopwood Gooseworthy.

(Photos courtesy of Susan Gavin, who mourns Hoppy along with the rest of us.)