Woe betide anyone who ever crosses the path of a horny gander

We have two geese and a gander which patrol the field outside our house, squawking at passing joggers and shedding feathers.

We learned early on, (after one morning finding a trail of feathers minus one goose) that they’re popular with foxes, and so began the thankless task of having to put them away at night.

I don’t mean to bemoan nature’s feathered friends, but ganders especially are the devil’s bird. And this one gets particularly cross this time of year.

Earlier this month, I was coaxing the feathery trio into the hut by the light of the moon.

Relief that the thankless task had all but ended, I reached in to close the door. But the gander wasn’t ready for bed.

Wings spread, beak spitting all but fire, he turned and waddled towards me like an angry fat woman, webbed feet flapping.

Quaking in my wellies, I was not going to stick around for that and fled.

However, I was only temporarily defeated and returned minutes later with two tennis racquets and a hockey stick. Jabbing the sports equipment in the direction of the irate bird, battle for the field commenced under the cover of dark.

Although it was tempting to clout him round the head, for all those animal rights folk reading this, I can assure you, he came to no harm.

It wasn’t long before victory was mine though, and he retreated back into the hut. I’d like to say that marks the end of my run-ins with this bird, but still our power struggles continue. I may have won the battle but I haven’t won the war. I probably won’t until I realise he’s in charge.