Goose stepping. Marching around like they own the place. Which. Of course. They do.

Enjoying a quiet moment with Toby.

But there's no escape. They know exactly where to find you.

Geese are pure. Unadulterated.

Evil.

But as 8-year-old C. likes to say when I complain about the five feathered fire-breathing dragons, "But Mom, they're our evil geese." There are times when I think Dennis is right. We should have named them Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, etc.