An Appointment For 'Goose'

My new life in rural Cornwall isn't always a walk in the park. Swapping the stresses of city living for the tranquility of the 'good life' at Newhouse Farm has many upsides, and my days are now filled with tending to livestock and nurturing plants and vegetables rather than typing documents in an office in central London. But the downsides of living closer to nature keep taking me by surprise. I knew how to handle the difficulties of life in the city: I'd spent many years hardening myself to the aggressiveness, the weirdos, and the strain of living alongside London's 10 million other inhabitants. After a decade in London I felt like I'd mastered it on my own terms. I'd found a path for myself amidst the chaos, took great satisfaction in having memorised a majority of the bus and tube routes, and although I didn't like many of the negative aspects of living in a busy urban environment I'd become hardened to it.

But since I decided to escape the city and move to the countryside I've found myself at the bottom of a steep learning curve again. Sure, I know how to deal with an Underground tube crammed with angry rush hour commuters, but what use does that do me in Cornwall?! It certainly doesn't help me with nurturing a poorly goose. As I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the 7 goslings I've been responsible for raising at the farm had become ill. She was barely eating and had lost weight, her eyes were dull and half closed, she couldn't hold her neck up straight, and her wings had drooped by her sides. But despite her mysterious ailments she was still walking around, trying to keep up with her siblings as they walked and squawked around the goose enclosure, which I took to be a good sign. I was told that normally a sick animal would be picked on by it's other companions, but in the case of the goslings this was quite the opposite. They seemed to be careful around her, never pushing her out of the way when she stood quietly dozing by the water trough, or pecking her when she tried to follow them.

I'd been hopeful that given a bit of time the poorly gosling might pull through. We had no idea what was causing her illness, and it certainly didn't appear to be contagious as the other goslings were clearly their usual raucous selves. So I did all I could and made sure that they had plenty of clean bedding, fresh water, and enough food to try and entice the poorly gosling to eat something and return to health. As the goslings were being kept as a source of food rather than as pets I knew it didn't make sense to take a poorly one to the vets. I've known from years of having dogs in the family that veterinary bills can be sky high, even for simple procedures, and if the goose needed an operation it would make more sense to put her out of her misery at the farm rather than to foot the bills. It's the harsh reality of living on a smallholding: where there's livestock, there's deadstock. Nature would take it's own course and decide the gosling's fate, and I must try to leave the goslings to their own devices and not to fret about them.

But that was easier said than done and every now and again I'd find myself skulking by the corner of the farmhouse next to the goose enclosure, from which I could observe the goslings without them spotting me. From this secret vantage point I kept tabs on the poorly gosling, and gained hope as I saw her begin to peck at the corn and tentatively start to eat again. Now her appetite was creeping back this surely meant she was on the road to recovery. I remained hopeful she'd pull through, yet despite the increase in her food intake and my positive thinking her symptoms didn't seem to be improving. Now when she honked she made a phlegmy gurgling noise in her throat, as if she had a heavy cold. What's more it appeared as if the crop at the bottom of her neck was becoming swollen.

Finally, on a wet and gloomy Monday morning in the middle of July, the day of reckoning arrived for the poorly gosling. I'd been covertly watching her from behind the patio doors of the office at the farmhouse, and became very concerned by what I saw. Rather than attempting to follow her siblings around the goose enclosure, she was sitting huddled by the water trough, with her eyes closed as the wind riffled through her feathers. As I watched her I felt an overwhelming feeling of sadness: I didn't know what was wrong with her, or what I could do to 'fix' her. I knew in my head that it was probably time for her to be dispatched, which is the phrase used at the farm when an animal is going to be killed. But in my heart I wanted so badly for her to get better, and I couldn't help imagining her making a miraculous recovery and running around with her siblings again. Maybe then I could keep her as a pet, and save her from the fate that awaited her siblings. The more I indulged the feelings in my heart, the sadder I became about the reality of the situation I saw outside the window, until I hurried upstairs and in the privacy of my room burst into tears.

I felt embarrassed about sobbing over a goose, but I couldn't stop crying. I was supposed to be keeping myself stoical about why I was raising the geese at the farm: they weren't pets, but animals who were destined for the plate. We were allowing them to live in the best possible conditions, with lots of fresh grass to roam on and a comfy, safe place to sleep, but ultimately one day they'd be dispatched and we'd sit around the kitchen table and enjoy a delicious meal of roast goose. But it seemed I'd been deceiving myself, as I'd grown very fond of the geese, and now I couldn't bear to see one of them suffering. I dried my eyes and hung on to one last ray of hope: what if I took the poorly goose to the vets?

I went downstairs and rang the local veterinary centre , unsure of whether they'd even be able to treat a goose. A nurse picked up the receiver and answered in warm tones, "Yes, indeed we do treat geese. How about an appointment at 5.30pm?" The nurse started to take my details: "Your name? Phone number? What's the name of the goose?" This last question took me completely by surprise. I had made a firm decision not to name the goslings, or any of the other chicks or ducklings I'd incubated, as this was a big step towards personalising them and transforming them into pets. So, with a lump in my throat, I replied "She doesn't have a name. Just Goose." "Very well then," the nurse said, "we'll see you both this afternoon."

I hung up the phone and took some comfort from the question the nurse had asked me so matter-of-factly: what was the goose's name. I realised that I mustn't be alone in shedding tears over a goose. There must be countless other people dotted around Cornwall who have taken their geese to the vets, and who have clearly given them names and treated them much more like pets than I had allowed myself to do. Maybe I wasn't so soft and pathetic after all. But as I returned to the office to look out the window at the gosling my heart sank again as reality hit me. Nature had taken its course and she was clearly on her last legs: a trip to the vets wasn't going to make her any better. I was going to have to let go of that hope of her making a miraculous recovery. The kindest thing to do was to quickly put her out of her suffering.

I knew all this was for the best, but I still felt desperately sad and couldn't seem to gain control of my feelings. Up until this point I'd managed to hide my emotions from everyone, not wanting them to know that this former city girl was feeling sentimental over a mere goose. But now I confessed all the thoughts I'd been having to James, and he gave me a big hug and went to speak to Dick about it. Whilst I dried my eyes again, Dick had been to examine the poorly gosling. On his return he confirmed my belief that the gosling was too far gone to help her. We talked the matter through, and he explained that the kindest thing to do would be to dispatch her in the familiar surroundings of the farm, rather than submit her to the stress of driving in a car to the unfamiliar environment of the vets, where they most likely would decide to put her down. Dick suggested that I should accompany James and his mum Brigit to Truro, where we would do some shopping for James's sister Charlotte's birthday, which was the following day. Whilst we were gone Dick would take care of the gosling. I agreed that this sounded like a good plan, and Dick gave me a big hug.

As James, Brigit and I set off from the farm I felt a weight leave my shoulders: the decision had been made and I knew in my heart it was the right one. The worst thing for the gosling would have been to prolong her suffering, or cause her more distress. I'd previously been told what the method was for dispatching ducks and geese at the farm, and I knew that it would be swift and humane. The only thing I felt a little bad about was that I wasn't going to be there to see it through to the end. I feel that the process of ending the life of the ducks, geese and hens at the farm is something that I should witness at the very least, even if I'm not willing or able to do it with my own hands. After all it's the reality of eating meat, and I want to be a part of every bit of the process, from incubating and raising to dispatching and eating. But with the case of the poorly gosling we'd decided that it was probably for the best that I wasn't there when it happened... after all I'd already been upset enough that morning and now wasn't really the right time for me to witness the dispatching method.

Whilst we were shopping in Truro I dialled the number for the vets once again to cancel the appointment. This time a male voice answered the phone, and I gave him my name and said I needed to cancel the appointment. "Erm", he said, "I can't seem to find it." I thought for a moment and then offered "The appointment might be under the name of 'Goose'". "Ah yes" he said cheerily, "Got it. So I take it your goose is up and about and feeling better then?" "No, quite the opposite" I said stoically, "the goose is no more." After I hung up the phone I looked round at James and Brigit who'd overheard the conversation, and we all started giggling. Then we hit the shops and as we searched for presents for Charlotte's birthday, and I started to feel much better. Shopping as a cure for stress... maybe life in Cornwall isn't that far from life in London after all!


As a footnote to this story I'd like to point out what Dick did whilst James, Brigit and I were shopping in Truro. He and Steve, who works at the farm and has kept many ducks, geese, and hens over the years, set about the task of dispatching the poorly gosling. I'll talk about the usual method in another post, as I think it's a very important, although unpleasant, aspect of living on a smallholding in the countryside. Dick told me that the gosling was very weak, and didn't need the usual method of dispatching, and she passed away quickly and with no distress. Her gullet was full of corn, so it seems likely that she had an obstruction which was preventing her from digesting food. Geese eat pretty much anything they can lay their beaks on, whether it's digestable or not. We'd suspected this might be the case from the offset of her symptoms, and it reinforced that not taking her to the vets was the right decision to have made, as it would have been impossible to treat her without a major operation.

I'm sure not everyone who reads this will consider that we did the right thing. But I think, no matter what your opinion, that it's worthwhile considering the usual treatment of animals for food production in the UK and other countries. Sadly only a handful of animals get to live the free range, organic lifestyle of the geese, hens, ducks and pigs at Newhouse Farm. Fortunately more and more media attention is being shone on the terrible conditions that battery hens, or force fed geese, or pigs bred inhumanely for cheap pork have to live in. But the harsh truth is that it's just so easy to turn a blind eye, especially when we live far away from nature in the city, as I used to do. For me I still feel sad that the gosling didn't survive, and that the rest of them will one day end up as dinner, but at least I know that I've helped to raise them in the best possible environment and that up until the very last moment they've led a great life.

PS Thanks to everyone who wrote comments for the poorly gosling post, they were much appreciated.

PPS I suspect the other goslings missed their poorly sibling for the first couple of days. They hissed at me when I returned from Truro, and then were more awkward than usual about going to bed. But now they've returned to their usual comical behaviour, and seem to be making even more noise to accommodate for the fact that they are one less.