Entangled Lives

The fracas woke us early that March morning. Looking out towards the pond, there were six Canada geese in full blown territorial conflict: four fowl milling about on the barely frozen water, two others winding up their legs lengthening their necks like spears pointing them straight towards the group. A frenzy of wings and necks and movement, birds and feathers scattering. Cacophonous accusations of trespassing. Momentary victors, attackers sliding along the thinning ice, singing their triumph until the others return, gliding to a stop, landing just outside of reach. Again and again, this inharmonious scene unfolded throughout the morning. Until finally, two tired fowl remained, victors claiming the serenity of the pond tucked amid the trees.  

“They’re baaack!” our children proclaimed. Certain that the two remaining geese were the very same ones we had gotten to know last spring. “Sonny and Cher have come back to the pond!” We named them last year, claiming an intimacy with these animals whose curiosity brought them so close that they would wake us with their beaks tapping on our bedroom windows. This year, as last year, we would check-in on the goose couple: “What are Sonny and Cher up to this evening?” or “Is that Sonny and Cher on the roof?!” They were always together, as if bound by an invisible cord, an unyielding commitment to their duet. 

And, it seemed, an unyielding commitment to bringing the drama of their lives into ours. It has been a love-hate relationship, to be honest. While we are curious and ever-ready to tell stories about Sonny and Cher, we also harboured resentment: why do they have to wake us at 5 a.m. with their honking? Why have they taken over the floating dock? Why must they make their nasty deposits on our doorstep?

This year however felt somewhat different. Their territoriality seemed more violent, regularly fighting off interlopers to what seemed near-death. And then, one day, noticing that Sonny was on his own, we worried. Where was Cher? Were the ties that bound the couple somehow dissolved? Had she been attacked at a moment when we had our backs turned? It wasn’t long before we found her laying flat and perfectly still on a mossy rock beside a small wooded frog pond. Nesting. And with that, everything shifted, for us all. Nervous territorialism dissolved into serene homesteading. From time to time, we would see Cher join Sonny on the pond outside our window. Languidly, patiently, they would swim. Calmly, they would graze amidst the wildflowers. We learned that she could leave her nest because she had feathered it enough to keep her eggs warm: a moment’s respite to swim and graze. We were excited by the notion that fuzzy goslings would soon spot the pond-scape and we were concerned that our pond swims would be poisoned by the impossible volume of scat that these birds produce. Nevertheless, we would pay regular visits to observe Cher nesting, cautiously curious about her instincts, the breeze delivering our whispered well wishes.  

One day, as we watched Cher on her daily visit, we noted how the short swim – and peck – about extended into the afternoon and then towards evening. Similarly for the following days. Hoping that goslings were hatched and nearby, we went to the nest only to find it empty and abandoned: a mess of feathers and mossy debris. Predators, we presumed. We watched them for days, weaving narratives: what comes next for them? Do they try again right away? Wait until next year? Within days, though, we awoke to the familiar cacophony of conflict. “Here we go again!” we thought. We rose from our beds to see Sonny and Cher half-heartedly arguing with two leaner geese who were assertively protecting the four fluffy goslings they had in tow. By day’s end, Sonny and Cher were strutting in lockstep with Napoleon and Josephine as their babies waddled into their place at the heart of the flock. Engrossed by the now blended goose family, we tracked their every move: zigzagging the pond, grazing amongst the ferns, walking off into the woods, only to return sometime later to repeat the pattern. We took photos, cooed at the goslings as they grappled their way ashore. We also projected, wondering what this would mean for our gardens, our swimming, and our doorstep. And then, as if by design and in response to our mixed emotions, Sonny and Cher, Napoleon and Josephine and their brood were gone. Vanished, as though never touched by the drama of our entangled lives.

Sharon Kivenko