Houck Hollow

My mother and I found George at The Bird Hut, a store in Portland, Oregon. The card on his cage said he’d been found in an abandoned home, he was male, his name was George, and he didn’t sing. We brought him home. We fell in love with the little canary, who lived for only another year. The real George never sang and never had any offspring. This story is about depression, sorrow, and coping with the trials of life.

Hoppy was born with a dislocated wing. Sometimes this can be repaired. When I asked the vet, he said he would know after an X-Ray and gave me an estimate of $1000 just to do images. We simply couldn’t afford it. Hoppy’s story is true. She had an intense desire to climb to the highest perch in our seven-foot cage. Her death was tragic. Canaries like to bathe, and one day I put a glass bowl in the cage. It was too deep for her. When she died, I cried for two days.

Papa Goose belongs to my friend, Ann. The only part of his story that’s fictional is the beginning, though I do know where he was purchased. Most of my geese are his descendants. I have a great deal of love for this old bird. He’s settled into a senior citizen life on our property now, preferring to let his sons do the heavy lifting of protecting the flock. It’s true that the old gander almost died of a broken heart. He very much loves his three little sons.

We have many guests who visit the property, and some are a bit nervous when it comes to interacting with waterfowl. This comes as no surprise, of course, but I decided to write something that might help visitors feel more comfortable. As for me, I’d take a gander over a rooster any day. I have a great deal of respect for geese, and I find them extremely beautiful, loyal, and easy to manage birds. And, of all baby birds, goslings are the sweetest.

Our first outdoor flock, a very large mix of ducks and geese, including more than one hundred birds were put down due to Avian Flu. It was a horrible process, and I fell into depression and blamed myself for their deaths. It was an extremely traumatic experience for my family. I coped with it by channeling my feelings into writing. There are many wonderful books for pet dogs and cats who pass away, but I couldn’t find any for birds. I decided to write one.

This book has been in the works for more than two years. One Christmas season, on a beautiful day, I sat with my beloved buff gander on my lap, his long neck wrapped around mine. I told him I’d write a book about him and asked him what I should name the goose. “Harvey?” He didn’t like that one. He wasn’t crazy about Garfield, or Jim either, but when I mentioned, “Honk?” he had a lot of positive things to say. That night, I dreamed the story.