The history of Gertie the goose

THERE was a loud honk from the wicker basket as I heaved it onto the kitchen table. “What is it this time?” my wife, Maxeen, groaned, knowing my weakness for bringing home waifs and strays. But that was one of the hazards of being married to a vet. There was another honk from the basket. “Remember that difficult calving over at Geoff Palmer’s?” I said. “Well, this is Geoff ’s thank-you present to us. Gertie.” I lifted the lid off and a long, white neck uncurled from within. A large, orange bill swung in my direction and two steel-grey eyes stared coldly at me. “With five months to Christmas, we can fatten her up nicely,” I said. There was an indignant hiss from the goose as I scooped her out of the basket in a flurry of snowy down and flaying webbed feet. “Gertie’s an Emden. Geoff says they make good table birds,” I went on, as our prospective Christmas dinner wagged her tail and then waddled over to the oven to peck at her reflection in the door. “Have you thought where we’d keep her?” asked Maxeen. I shrugged. “What about the old chicken coop?” “It’s full of fertile guinea-pigs.” “The lovebirds aviary?” “Elderly budgerigars.” “Ah, I know, the garden shed,” I declared undaunted. “I’ll move the ferrets into the garage until Christmas. And I’ll pinion her wings so she can have free rein of the garden.” Next day I took Gertie to the veterinary hospital. She arrived back with wings plucked, the pimply skin across each tip supporting stitches where the extremities had been snipped off under anaesthetic. But that didn’t stop her from escaping. As she grew, so did her appetite for pastures new. Her first excursion was to Miss Partridge, the retired post-mistress who lived next door. “I’m sorry to trouble you, dear,” she told to Maxeen over the phone. But a rather large duck is picking my pansies. Is he yours?” My wife hurried round straightaway. The rectory was Gertie’s next port of call, paddling round the centre of his pond clearly enjoying herself but making the incumbent, Reverend James, very hot under his dog-collar. He came to the rescue with a Savoy cabbage. “Maybe a little temptation?” he said with a benign smile and stripped off the outer leaves of the cabbage, putting them in neat piles round the edge of the pond as if arranging prayer books. It did the trick. Gertie was enticed ashore and I pounced on her. She hissed. I swore. Reverend James crossed himself and uttered a series of fervent “Bless you’s.” I managed to curtail any further wanderings with plastic mesh, chicken wire and dismantled budgerigar cages. But it meant sacrificing the vegetable plot. “At least it’s helping to fatten her up,” I said as I watched the last row of my sprouts being devoured. Maxeen grimaced. “Actually, I’m getting rather fond of Gertie,” she said. “She gives me a friendly honk in the morning when I let her out. And she always rummages in my pockets for breakfast scraps. What about having a turkey for Christmas instead?” But I was adamant. Maxeen realised that when she found the cordon bleu cookery book I’d been engrossed in open at “Roast goose with traditional forcemeat and watercress”. And when Geoff Palmer’s wife phoned up with a recipe for chestnut and apple stuffing that I had requested, my wife realised that Gertie’s days were numbered. The Friday before Christmas was the vets’ party. The traditional wine and cheese round the operating table. Maxeen and I returned late that evening. There were a couple of honks from the bottom of the garden as I fumbled at the front door trying to align key with latch. When we finally managed to let ourselves in, we promptly tripped over Nelson, our deaf Jack Russell, snoring in blissful unawareness on the hall rug. I didn’t sleep too well – kept dreaming of being chased round and round the kitchen table by an irate goose with a knife and fork in each wing. Gertie’s honking woke me up, her cackling rising to a crescendo. Was Foxie after our Christmas dinner? I sprang out of bed, snapped on the light and throwing a dressing gown over my shoulders, pounded down the stairs. An open back door greeted me, a pane of glass broken. I heard the sound of footsteps running away. Too late, Nelson cottoned on to the fact we’d had burglars and began to bark at a bowl of fruit. Of course, we had Gertie to thank for the warning. She’d saved our skins. The least we could do was save hers. We enjoyed our turkey on Christmas Day. Gertie tucked into a large helping of poultry food followed by a portion of Christmas pudding liberally laced with brandy. That may well have accounted for the extra swagger in her early morning walk on Boxing Day. Her future became even more secure as the following year I was given two turkey poults to fatten up. They proved to be quite endearing creatures and were good company for Gertie. But as they grew so did our fondness for them. It meant the next Christmas we ended up tucking in to boiled ham.