The day before V-day saw me and Max the Dog paddling solo out to an island in the James where we waited and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . With zero geese seen or heard by 11:00, I had decided to pull the dekes and head home for some family time. I talked it over with Max, and he let me know he wasn't too satisfied with all these hours rooted to the blind with nothing meaningful to do. It had been a beautiful morning with the light snow, and now the clearing skies had sun sparkling off the rippling water.
"Ok, Buddy. Let me eat some lunch, we'll pack up, and you can nap in the truck on the way home, cool?" He whined and groaned in reply, starting to his feet when I leaned to pull the food from my bag. Two bites in, I heard the sound of an outboard running up the river. Two big, brownish birds furiously turned the corner of the river and I heard that beloved, wild honk and smiled. Lunch involuntarily hit the dirt at my feet as I whispered a "Sit" to Max and fumbled for my call with one hand and gun with the other. I honked once, then switched to a moaning lay-down. The birds' wings slowed and stopped beating for just one second. Yes! Another lay-down call and they locked wings straight in front of the blind. Max tracked them like an AA turret as they glided by, stretched their necks and moaned back at us, then banked and slid in upstream of the dekes. "Hold on, Max. Wait." After so many hours in the blind, he couldn't contain himself and broke after them. I couldn't blame him. Before he could get in harm's way, I leapt to my feet and downed the pair with one round apiece.
Max beached the first, and I guided him to the second which had by this time drifted downstream 50 yards or so. 100 yards further on, he climbed out of the water out of sight and came trotting up the bank with the big bird. Cheering, smiling, and praising him for the carry (he still doesn't care much for carrying geese out of the water) I met him at the top of the steep bank. He dropped the bird (which isn't flawless retriever manners I know, but he has not trouble with ducks to hand, just these big 10 pound honkers, so I cut him a little slack
) As it hit the ground, the sun flashed silver from its ankle. "Woooohoo! Max, you good dog! Your first banded goose! Haha!!! Awesome work, Buddy!!" I roughed him up around the neck and head while he wagged and pranced like the champ he was, panting, smiling, and trembling with excitement. I've said that half the fun of waterfowling is the dog. It's far more than half. So, on to the band. The band was stamped with a name (I'll just say "Jones") and a number underneath. I called the bird banding project, and they said the band wasn't theirs. After a few minutes of thinking, I decided that the number looked a lot like a phone number and, sitting right there in the blind, punched it into my cell to see what happened. An answering machine picked up and a woman's voice announced "You have reached the Jones's. Please leave a message . . . " I quickly hung up. What!? A goose with someone's home number on its leg!? Oh my Lord! Had I just killed someone's pet!? I called back and left a message explaining what I'd done and asking for a return call. An hour later, Mr. Jones returned my call and said, "So, the old girl finally met her demise huh?" He told me the bird's story, which I thought was absolutely fascinating. Here's what I learned about my bird:
7 years ago, Mr. Jones (who lives in the DC area) obtained 9 fledgeling geese from the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center which he released on a property he owns not far from where I was hunting. All 9 were females that had been hatched at the center. He banded them with his name and number, just to see where they would go. The bird I killed was the last of his 9. This particular bird had nested for the past 5 years on a small island in the middle of his farm pond. Her first 2 broods did not survive, but the last 3 did. The unique markings on her head are a marker of her lineage, which I think is the coolest part of the whole story. The Patuxent Wildlife Research Center obtained her ancestors when live decoys were made illegal in the 1930s and hunters who owned flocks of a decoy geese had to give them up. So, she connects back to some rich waterfowling history! (I'm not approving of live decoy use, I just think it's cool that she can be traced back that far.)
So, not quite a pet . . . but awfully darn close! I apologized for killing her, and Mr. Jones said, "Hey, they live a long time, but they don't live forever. Congratulations!" A dyed-in-the-wool waterfowler himself, he had no ill will for me--actually seemed genuinely happy for me to get my first band--and we talked for quite a while as he told me stories of waterfowling 30 years ago. So, I not only got my first band, I made a friend too! No, there's no official certificate with this band, but the story more than makes up for it in my book!
You can see where the band slid down the bird's leg and had severely cut into her foot which had grown around the band. Ouch! Anybody who bands birds should take note of this to make sure it doesn't happen! She had lived quite well with it for 7 years though, so it didn't seem to harm her. But, dang!
Congrats again!
