The end of the year brings about so much energy, so many heightened moments with family and friends, as we celebrate all the different holidays that exist in our community. It’s also a time of reflection, a chance to look back on the previous 12 months and give thanks for all the many blessings we’ve received. For me, though, holiday reflection is more difficult to achieve, as the season always reminds me of the time I hate-ate a goose.

The term “Christmas goose” is familiar to most people and denotes images of a crispy, succulent waterfowl gracing a fully appointed holiday dinner featured in one of those magazines you see at the Hannaford check-out. Right next to the cover story about JFK’s love tryst with an alien. Me? I have slightly different associations with the Christmas goose, something more akin to ennui and remorse, with a sprinkling of indigestion. Allow me to explain.

When they were much younger, the kids and I raised four runner ducks and two goslings in our bathtub. It was a delightful experience for all involved. That is, of course, an assumption on my part as it’s hard to tell the difference between a happy duck and a somber duck. Oddly enough, The Somber Ducks was the name of my emo band in high school. Still, their needs were cared for and they received plenty of attention which leads me to believe it was a decent experience, until we moved them to an outdoor pen, that is. It was here, as noted in a previous article, they were brutally massacred by a particularly determined raccoon. Of the six creatures that shared a tub together, only one gosling managed to escape the carnage. He grew to become a big, beautiful, white bird. We named him Fish.

My cat’s therapist and dermatologist both agree that PTSD treatments aren’t exactly where they need to be when it comes to geese, so poor Fish’s trauma went unattended. While I can’t establish causality here, it stands to reason that the fowl’s horrific experience witnessing his gaggle’s demise may have permanently altered his disposition. In other words, Fish grew up to be a total asshole.

While a certain level of assholery is to be expected of geese — they are extremely territorial after all — Fish took things to a much darker place. Attacking children, dogs, cars, cats, squirrels, chickens, and neighbors became a regular part of his oeuvre. He battered windows with his wings and honked what must surely have been obscenities at anything that moved. He even tried to peck holes in our car tires for some unknown reason. Haters gonna hate, I suppose. In short, he was a total menace and made my entire family nervous to even walk outside for fear he lay in wait.

We tried to relocate him but, believe it or not, there weren’t a lot of takers for a goose with a damaged psyche. Imagine that ad. “Goose for sale. Cheap! White. Male. Prone to anger. Hates things that move. Will trade for string trimmer. Text for details.” I supposed I could have lied and pretended he was normal, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it. A man’s got to have limits. We tried to endure but having three small children who won’t go outside for fear of being pounced upon by a honking nightmare is not exactly the Ozzie and Harriet atmosphere we were trying to create. It was more like living with one of Khaleesi’s dragons from Game of Thrones but instead of Fire and Blood it was Fear and Tears.

The pressure reached a fever pitch when he attacked some friends who were visiting from a nameless big city just a couple hours to our south. Fish managed to trap the family inside their bright white rental car while they tried calling and texting us for help. Since we didn’t have cell service on our property — we had to have “privacy” — they were not able to reach us. I can’t actually say how long they were held hostage before I noticed, but for some period of time at least we were dealing with a Cujo situation, only with a white goose rather than a rabid Saint Bernard.

Enough was enough. My anger at that creature reached critical mass as I rescued the sobbing family from their bright white rental car. A motorcycle helmet and a pair of welding gloves were all I needed to capture the evil critter and pin him in my arms. My family has raised and processed hundreds of meat chickens over the years, so I was no stranger to dispatching birds; thus, it didn’t take long to put an end to our tormentor.

I won’t go into the gory details of Fish’s demise but our usual “cone” method requires some set up, so I went with a more ancient technique. Side note, that old wives tale about chickens and heads being cut off appears to be based in some level of truth, at least as it applies to geese. And the longer neck … well, some things are better left unsaid I suppose. Also, if you don’t wash it off immediately, goose blood can be quite sticky on bright white rental cars. It takes a lot of elbow grease to remove. Just passing that along.

Not one to waste food, my wife set about “processing” the goose and served it up for dinner a few nights later. (Don’t worry, we didn’t serve it to the traumatized family. They left not long after their rental car was bright white again.)

Unlike the mental image that is conjured when one thinks of Christmas dinner with a steaming goose, ours was a solemn occasion. In fact, nobody really wanted to eat it. As the patriarch of the family, I felt it was my duty to lead the charge and that, combined with my hatred of that creature, gave me courage enough to consume a serving. It tasted terribly and gave me horrible indigestion. One final jab from that damn goose, exacting his revenge even from the grave.

So, you can see why there are no Christmas geese allowed in our house. We leave them alone and expect the same in return. Come to think of it, that may also have something to do with at least one of our children being vegetarian. But causality is so hard to establish with these things.