We have a Goose.
He doesn’t have a name, I call him “Get Lost Buddy or Else” as he has a tendency to not be the nicest guy on the block. I tolerate him, feed him and let him roam the premises because he takes care of the hens and because I feel bad for the dirty rotten rat fink. He has a sad pathetic story.
He came to us with a lovely mate, they were a sweet pair, ate our of our hands and kept the neighbors up at night, charming couple really. They tried unsuccessfully to hatch a nest of goslings three times and finally on the fourth time they made it, they had goslings. Ugly and cute, the parents where proud, until a skunk or fox or weasel got in and ate every single one. The momma was heartbroken, she literally stopped eating and she faded away, we found her one day on her old nest , gone to be with her babies. The dadda goose was heartbroken at the loss of his family and we almost lost him too, then our rooster died and he took over, he has a purpose now. A flock. A meaning. The girls need him.
So I let him stay. I tolerate his occasional nips and angry hisses. He isn’t friendly anymore. He is a cynic and he doesn’t tolerate love anymore.
I let the Old Gnarly Angry Pathetic Goose stay.