Some people fear spiders, snakes, airplanes, bats or burning their pizza. I, however, am terrified of feet, blood, mannequins, lotion, furbies, the opening tune to the song "Gas Pedal," needles, and most importantly: geese. Geese — also known as “demonic waterfowl” — and I have a personal war against one another, a war that they are winning. I have even gone as far as to write a parody song about geese to the tune of “Everywhere I Go” by Hollywood Undead: “Everywhere I go, Satan always knows that Taya D is scared of geese and she’s getting TFO.” This is my story.

The origin of this battle dates back to 2004 when I was seven years old and spending the day with my grandparents, who made me promise not to tell this story while they were still alive because they felt bad. My grandparents are from Belgium, a country where literal parades of geese occur, and nobody runs away screaming. Needless to say, they were not prepared for the day we were going to have. We were enjoying ourselves at the park across the street from their house. This park was up the hill from a pond, which combined with an obscene amount of corn that got dumped in the area, attracted copious amounts of geese. Well, seven-year-old me had a thing for hugging animals that I probably shouldn’t. So while my grandma was back home fetching us some strawberry ice cream cones, I decided to wander over and try to hug a goose. Geese are not huggable, and that should be a lesson taught in schools. I attempted to approach this goose, and instead of getting a hug, I got hissed at. I was not about that life so I turned around to go back to my grandpa, who was paying zero attention to me or what was happening to me. When I turned around, I realized that there was no escape. The other geese had formed a circle around me and basically sealed my fate. I couldn’t walk toward them because they would hiss at me, but I couldn’t just stand still because they kept closing in on me, and suddenly I just hear my grandfather uttering what I can only imagine where various expletives in Flemish. So I started crying. Fun fact: geese don’t care if you’re crying. When I cry, all ability to think straight just leaves me; so I just swatted the goose next to me. Big mistake. That goose came at me and chomped at my face, which was basically at face level with this evil creature. Luckily, I turned my head and it got my hair. This goose and I were pulling back and forth while the other geese just watched us as if they were in class. Suddenly, I heard my grandma scream, which made some of the geese around me evacuate. I saw my out, and I kicked this goose. Normally, I am all about not hurting animals, but this goose needed to feel my wrath. He flew back and took my hair with him (thankfully I have super thick hair so nobody ever saw my goose-inflicted bald spot.) I sprinted out of the circle and went full blast across the street to my grandparents’ house. I didn’t know if the geese were following me, or if by running, I had just sacrificed my grandparents to the demons, and in that moment, I didn’t care. I had escaped but left a part of me behind. I like to think that goose brought my hair back to Goose HQ for future generations of geese to study.

Fast forward to October of 2015 when the goose war started up again. From the initial incident to this year, geese and I had coexisted. I avoided them, and they avoided me. However, something in the air changed that year. Suddenly, they were staring me down when I’d drive and pass one that was just chilling on the side of the road; it was like a scene from a movie where it turns to slow motion as two people hold eye contact. Then, one day I was driving to Walmart. I wanted to take a different route so that I could explore the area as I was new here. Somehow, I ended up all the way in North Dakota. Granted, it is only an hour from Morris, but it still was a whole different state. Anyway, as I’m lost, I pulled into a park so that I can turn around and get back to where I came from. I pulled into this park and find that there is a road block. Roughly twenty geese are blocking me from going any further. I shifted the car into reverse thinking that I would just back out of the park instead of doing a full loop, but while my car was stopped, more geese surrounded the back of it. I looked out my window, and there was a goose standing on the road staring up at me as if it knew who I was. I couldn’t even honk my horn at the geese because the car I had had a horn that basically sounded like a weak goose. I was trapped. Then, suddenly a butt ton of ducks just waddled on over and somehow got the geese to go about their business elsewhere. I yelled “Thank you!” to the ducks for some reason, declared them my official ally in this war that had resurfaced, and got the heck out of North Dakota.

My final significant encounter with geese for the time being took place not too long ago either. Towards the end of March, the weather was heating up and I was eager to go sit on a beach and stare at the water. I somehow forgot that geese enjoyed water, too. I found myself a spot away from all of the geese and started skipping rocks. A little girl came up to me and introduced herself as Savannah, and asked if I could teach her how to do it. I started demonstrating, and she picked up a significantly large round rock to start with. Before I could explain to her that it wasn’t the best rock to use, she shot-put it. Now, if you had to guess where Little Savannah’s rock landed, what would you guess? If your guess is directly on a goose’s beak, then you are right! She nailed this goose on the beak and I felt myself tense up. I put my hand on her shoulder and whispered “Run.” She didn’t run, so I just kept saying the word louder and louder until she was running (probably from me) to the safety of her mother. I smiled, knowing that I just saved a small child from a lifetime of traumatization at the hands of a goose, and turned around to see that the goose and all of its friends were now coming for me. I yelled some words that I probably shouldn’t have yelled at a park and started running. I didn’t want to run towards Savannah in fear that they would recognize her and change their target to her. So, I decided that my best bet was to cut across the shallow part of this pond over towards where my car was parked. I, of course, am clumsy as all hell and tripped immediately upon entering the water. I landed smack dab in front of two geese that were swimming their way on over to achieve vengeance for their brother’s bruised beak. As I was falling, my hand grazed one of these goose’s bodies (it was the touch of soft impending doom) and apparently (according to Savannah’s mom’s Snapchat that she showed me after this whole thing was over and I was safely on shore) I yelled “This is how it ends!” Between me falling in front of them, touching one of them, and screaming at them, this goose just tried to eat my hand. I pulled my hand away, trying to look strong as I could, hoping to assert dominance. I could see multiple people on their phones filming me as I started walking back toward the beach, so I dramatically turned back toward the geese and yelled, “Not today Satan!” and went over and sat on a park bench to dry off. Inside my head, I was screaming, in immense amounts of pain, crying, swearing, and just wanting to go home, but I had to play it off as I was okay, not just for my public appearance, but for Savannah’s sake. I like to think that she’ll always remember me as the hero who took a goose bite for her, but in reality, she probably sees me as the scary girl on the beach who grabbed her and yelled “Run!”

Long story short, geese are actually the worst things in the world. Their bites hurt and their hisses echo in your head for years to follow. They don’t want hugs and they don’t want you to join their swimming party. If you get lost and enter their park, they will trap you until angelic ducks rescue your pathetic eighteen-year-old self. They are super unapologetic and your tears just feed their egos. Also, if you ever see one with a lock of blonde hair, remember me.