(Published in Grievances Magazine, November, 2015)
We’d
been in our new house in Phoenix less than two weeks when Thursday began. I was
up early, had showered and dressed by 7 because Paul’s car was finally being
delivered between 7 and 9. Our window of delivery from the transport company
had come and gone four times since Monday, and we’d heard four different
excuses from the dispatcher.
Paul
was up as well, hoping to get the car in time to drive it to work. He had only
bought the car three days before we left North Carolina. It was the nicest (and
most expensive) car we’d ever owned—a one-year-old BMW 535d with only 9000
miles. While we were driving our dogs to
Phoenix in a rented SUV, my brother back in North Carolina had handed the BMW keys
to the transport truck driver.
The
phone rang at 7:05. The dispatcher apologized for calling so early (of course I
was up, ready to get the car) and said the driver would now be at the house at
12:30. Another delay.
Paul
and I were disappointed once again, but we both had busy mornings to get on
with. Paul had his first quarterly board meeting at 11, and as the new president
of the company, was feeling the pressure to perform. I had my first appointment
in my new life—a vet visit for our dog Bailey, also at 11. I unpacked boxes
until it was time to go.
I
got home a little after 12 and rushed to make sandwiches. The dispatcher called
at 12:27, saying the driver was 15 minutes away. Paul walked in as I was
scarfing down my lunch and he did the same. I put Bailey in the bedroom with the
other dogs so they wouldn’t bark and be underfoot. We sat in the living room,
watching out the big front window for the transport truck to arrive. Fifteen
minutes came and went.
I
called the dispatcher after an hour and he was surprised we didn’t have the
car. He said he’d call the driver and get right back to me.
I
noticed a Canadian goose resting on the lawn next door and commented to Paul
how big it was and how strange it seemed that he’d be so close to the houses.
Paul said he’d noticed him there when he’d left for work earlier.
I
wondered if this was normal for Phoenix. I remembered a neighborhood in
Pasadena where peacocks roamed like street gangs, perching on rooftops, and
thought maybe we just had Canadian geese roaming here.
The
dispatcher called back. The driver was 2 miles away looking for a street on
which he could unload the truck.
“He
can unload on our street,” I said.
“Oh
no, it’s too small.”
“Your
other driver unloaded my Prius right here last week. There was plenty of room.”
Paul
and I knew something wasn’t right. We weren’t buying the driver’s excuses
anymore.
At
2:00 a man walked up to our door and knocked: the driver. Our car was on 15th
Avenue a block away, but it was out of gas. How could it be out of gas? There
had been more than a half tank when it was loaded.
Paul
walked out the door and towards 15th Avenue with the driver. When he
returned, he said the gas had been siphoned off (along with the gas of 3 other
cars on the truck) while the driver was sleeping, and now the car was in the
turn lane on 15th Avenue. Paul told the driver he’d call AAA and
left him at the scene.
“We
are not calling AAA,“ I said. “Until the car is delivered to us, it’s not our
responsibility.”
I
repeated that line to the dispatcher who called while I spoke to Paul.
“The
driver feels bad,” the dispatcher said. “He’s willing to pay for some of the
gas.”
“Some
of the gas? Are you kidding?” I asked, my voice wavering as it does when I get
upset. “You figure this out.”
Paul
sat down to wait. I paced in front of the big living room window, noticing the
goose next door was closer to my house and walking around.
I
stepped outside to see the goose who was really quite huge and gorgeous. I
still had my phone in my hand, so started videoing the bird as it walked right
up to me, passing within inches of my feet, and strolled onto my front porch.
His mouth was open, shining with saliva, and it hit me: he’s thirsty. The
temperature was supposed to hit 107 within hours, and it was already well over
100.
I
stopped the video and got my hose out—kept on the side of the porch to water
plants. As soon as I turned on the hose, the goose ran to me and began drinking
and bathing—really dramatically sticking his head in the stream, clearly
relieved to have water.
I
decided to go in and get a bowl, but as soon as I turned off the water and
headed for the door, the goose followed me. I had to slide inside and shut the
door in his face.
Paul
was on the phone with a board member, discussing the big meeting. I returned to
the porch with a Tupperware container full of water.
My
goose ducked his beak into the water as soon as I set it down, drinking loudly.
I turned on the hose again so he could shower some more. I could see Paul was
still on the phone, but caught his eye and pointed to my bird.
I
started to google what Canadian geese eat, but was interrupted by a call from
the dispatcher, asking if everything was okay. Um, no.
I
was put on hold again, annoyed because I needed to get back to my goose care. I
crumbled some Frosted Mini-Wheats into a bowl and delivered it to the goose
while waiting for news of the car.
“I’ll
have to call you back,” the dispatcher said. Not good.
Paul
finished his business call and headed out to see about the car. My goose
enjoyed his Frosted Mini-Wheats.
As
I stood observing him, I noted he held his left wing a little oddly,
occasionally preening it, and he pooped an alarming amount.
Paul
came back (“Watch your step! Goose poop!”) and said the car was still in the
turn lane in the middle of the street, but that he now had the keys and would
no longer wait for the incompetent driver to do something, so he called AAA
after all.
I
found a wildlife rehab place on my phone and called to report a very friendly
Canadian goose with an odd wing and lots of poop.
“Can
you confine it until I get there?” Cheryl the rehabber asked.
“It’s
standing (and pooping) on my door mat right now. If I opened the door, he’d come
in.”
When
the dispatcher called, I handed the phone to Paul who had better first-hand
information on the car. He’d demonstrated to the driver that the gas panel
could not be opened manually unless the car was unlocked, so gas couldn’t have
been siphoned unless the car had been left unlocked.
Paul
hung up, clearly furious, walked out the door, stepping in fresh poop on the
door mat, and stormed off cursing. The goose watched him go and then turned
back to peer at me through the big window.
Paul
came right back (tracking poop onto our pristine hardwoods) and said the driver
and transport truck were gone, abandoning the BMW in the street. He called AAA
back to let them know he’d now be waiting for them at the car, not the house,
not wanting to leave the car unattended in the busy street.
The
dispatcher called and I updated him. He asked if the delivery paperwork had
been signed.
“Oh,
that’s not happening,” I replied.
“I
guess the driver can just do the final inspection then,” he said. “Your husband
seems pretty angry.”
I
nearly laughed, but instead answered in my trembly voice, ”The driver took off.
He won’t be doing any inspecting.”
When
I hung up, I turned to see my goose back in the neighbor’s yard. Cheryl had said
that bread was bad for geese, but to use it if I needed to lure him into my
back yard where he could be confined.
The
goose was now more interested in eating grass than engaging with me, so it took
a while and a lot of bread crumb tossing to get him to start following me. I
had watched the woman who lived next door and her kids and two housekeepers
enter the house since my front porch vigil, so I was aware that they and
possibly other neighbors (none of whom I’d met yet) were likely watching me and
that I probably looked like Kevin Costner coaxing the wolf in Dances with
Wolves, but not nearly as cool, since my target was a goose, and I’m not Kevin
Costner.
But
by the time I had the goose in my back yard, I’d stopped caring.
The
dogs inside the house erupted into an angry chorus of barking as the goose and
I passed by the bedroom door.
I
closed the goose off in the side yard, went back to retrieve his water and food
bowls and left him to call Cheryl to report his confinement.
Paul
returned and announced that the BMW was now in our driveway leaking the diesel he'd
put in to drive the block to our house. He called BMW roadside service and a
local dealer to arrange pick-up. I took a picture of the 2 maxi-pads attached
to the gas tank where the diesel was pouring out in a steady stream.
It
was becoming clear our driver may not have been the victim of a crime but the
actual criminal himself. We hoped the gas thieves didn’t realize our car
contained diesel and mixed it with the other gas, rendering it all useless.
While
we waited for the BMW flatbed, Paul unloaded the trunk and I checked on my
goose who honked loudly every time I approached as if to scold me for leaving
him alone. Cheryl was on her way.
The
vet called with Bailey’s test results and a recommendation to remove the tumor
on her leg. Our previous vet in North Carolina had decided not to remove it as
her recovery would be complicated by her anxiety disorder (as any and all of
her recoveries had been). I promised the new vet we’d give it more thought.
The
dogs had been in the bedroom since before noon, so I went to check on them.
When I opened the door, I saw the remains of the blinds from the patio door strewn
across the floor. I just backed out and closed the door, noting to keep Paul
from going in there until after the BMW ordeal was concluded.
I
was happy to see Cheryl’s car out front and went out to meet her. She unloaded
the small cardboard crate in the driveway and backed out to park on the street,
nearly hitting the man getting out of his truck across the street. He stepped
back and watched her with a WTF stance, spreading his arms and increasing his
stink eye on her second pass. I figured he was a neighbor—one who would know me
now by my dangerous guest rather than my Dances with Geese lore.
When
he started for my house I realized he was the salesman we were expecting (but
had forgotten in the chaos of the afternoon) here to sell us a water purifier
for the house.
I
apologized and checked my watch.
“You’re
a little early,” I said. “Could I trouble you to wait just a few minutes until
we get a goose into this box?”
He
went back to his truck, looking a little stunned.
I
apologized to Cheryl about the terrible diesel fuel smell and giant puddle we’d
covered with dog pee pads in our driveway, but I could see not much fazed her.
Those rescue people have seen it all.
We
got the goose folded into the box and Cheryl left with a thank you.
The
sales guy came in and pitched his heart out. I had trouble paying attention. I
suspect Paul did as well, and he eventually left me to learn about filters and
reverse osmosis while the flat bed loaded the BMW out front.
When
Paul came back in, I took a call from Cheryl while the sales guy tried to close
the deal to Paul.
“Thank
goodness you called us,” she said. “Not only is that left wing broken, but it’s
severely broken with a bone sticking out.”
Suddenly
the day seemed worth all the frustration, confusion and stress. My goose was
comfortable and safe and would heal and be released—none of which was true when
we’d met that morning.
Paul
and I promised the water guy we’d think about his proposal and thanked him.
We
ate leftovers and had a glass of wine, talked about Bailey’s surgery and the
car and the goose and the big meeting that had worried Paul so much and now
seemed so long ago.
We
were too tired to pick up the pieces of broken blinds on the floor when we went
to bed.
The
Arizona sun woke us early with no blinds in place, and we got up to start
another day in our new life.
