Ramble with Storm: Communication of geese or baby pleeze

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Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, our family’s mixed Lab.

Between hunting for Canada geese a few times a year and listening to/watching them about 100-plus mornings a year, I have a passing knowledge of their sounds.

They do have communication with nuances.

So this morning, there was a distant racket of geese on the lake to the west.

Then six flew over with what I would call their “I am coming in” calls as they landed on the north old clay pit.

As we came off the extended portion of the ramble, a lone goose flew over with what I would call a plaintive “Baby, pleeze” call. It reminds me of the call that good goose callers make if a group of geese begin to turn away.

A sort of “Come On Baby.”

The lone goose splashed down. While I watching it, I realized there were geese, 23 of them, tight to the south shore of the north pit.

Four more swam in the southeast corner. Tight to the north shore were another 15 or so.

They were all very quiet. I do not not know how to decipher that lack of calls from them. They sure did not seem overly concerned about a Lab and man within easy shooting distance of them.

OIn the south pit, A pair swam off the point Tom the Fisherman favors and another three were off the point by the old boat launch.

So we had somewhere around 80 geese on the two pits.

Fourtee hedge apples down on the east side of the south pit. Considering the cold of the morning, I had anticipated more.

It was so cold when we set out that the grass crunched from the frozen rain on it. The front steps were slick. On the back side of the extended ramble, some early light caught frozen drops on a branch and I managed a fair photo.

The bridge over the neckdown between the two pits was slick with a sheen of ice. I treaded carefully. The meathead? Not so much.

A belted kingfisher squawked off as we came around the south end of the south pit.

The sun rose as we came out by the grain elevator on the edge of town. It did not help with warming things.

A block from home, three gray squirrels scattered and ran up separate maples. The meathead gave a token chase of the closest.

Our thermometer behind the garage read 26 degrees.

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