This morning, Mama G was in a better mood. She even stood up to greet me.
“Good morning!” I called with more cheerfulness than I felt. “And how are our eggs today?”
She looked at me for a long moment before replying. “Our eggs are just peachy, dear,” she said.
“You sound better,” I said, taking my seat four steps up.
“Sorry about the hissy fit,” she said. “Truth is I had just discovered my first gray feather.”
I decided that silence was the wisest response.
“After sitting out in the rain I caught a big honking cold, and to top it off my darling mate got to talking to that beaver across the lake. Again. Forgot the time. He says. So I was sniffing and sneezing and the eggs hurt and I had a migrate headache . . .”
“You mean migraine?”
“Dear, a goose doesn’t migraine. A goose migrates. Anyway, I was tired and cranky and figured what was good for the goose should be good for the gander, as we geese like to say.”
“Mama G,” I said. “I Googled about this. The male Canadian goose doesn’t sit on the nest. It’s your job. He’s supposed to hang around and be ready to protect you.”
“Aha!” she snorted. “Protect me from what? Beavers?”
“Okay, look at the bright side. You’ve been out here for five days already. You only have another twenty, twenty-five tops!”
“I can do the math,” she said. “I didn’t exactly flunk flight school.”
“Uh . . .”
“But I’m better now. I’ve been making up stories and telling them to my eggs. My goslings will pop out loving my stories!”
“Fantastic!” I said. “Do you have a name for your stories?”
“Really?” she said. “Really?”
“Not thinking,” I mumbled.
“Don’t you have work you need to be doing?” she suggested.
All in all I thought it went well.