When Goats Fly

We have Canadian geese who sometimes take over the golf course. The pond. Sometimes so many of them fly, they blot out the sun. They honk. They crap everywhere. They are noisy. And I love them.

The owner of the golf course? Not so much. But nonetheless, here they are. Every day. The remind me of my grandfather who used to take me to feed the ducks--and geese. I love hearing them honking.

This morning, Demon Baby woke me by climbing in my bed and putting his cheek against mine.

"I love you, Mama."

"Love you, too, Demon Baby."

The geese began honking.

"The goats are here."

"What?"

"They're flying. They're going to eat our house."

"They are not going to eat our house."

"Should I tell the goats to go away?"

"They're geese."

"Goats."

"No. Both are g-words. But those are GEESE. Not GOATS."

"They're goats."

When goats fly . . .