Many years ago, I was hunting with my father and two of his inexperienced friends. We had a terrific hunt. It was one of those days when you could dance naked in your decoys and the geese would still come in (this, however, is not recommended - especially in late November).

Early in the day, we had a nice flock of birds come in and the less-than-stellar shooting commenced. It’s safe to say that we each shot three times and had we been able to show any shooting ability at all, we would have taken at least six birds. As it turned out, I killed one. The only other bird that was effected, other than increased heart rates and fertilizer output, was one that had been hit ever so slightly in the wing.

The crippled goose sailed no less than 200 yards before landing and this being before we hunted with a dog and me being the youngest, I was volunteered by my loving father to go fetch. 

I made my way down the field, strategically keeping myself between the goose and the swampy bog that would mean freedom for the bird. I hunkered through the weeds that made up the border between our field and the bog and, as I got closer to my prey, crawled like they do in those old World War II movies, using my elbows to pull myself forward across the damp earth.

I cussed and I swore.  I made up words.

Finally, when I was within about 30 yards, the goose began to show significant signs of apprehension. I had the feeling he’d known about my skulking for some time, but as I got nearer, he was obviously aware that something was sneaking up on him. Rather than give him a head start toward the bog, I leaped to my feet (no small chore when you consider my body) and sprinted (don't laugh - it was a faster-than-normal gait) down the row of weeds hoping to make the goose run back toward the field rather than to the swamp.

My mad dash worked. The goose stifled a chuckle and by the time he had recovered from his fit, I had put my more than adequate body between him and freedom. At that time, I changed direction and ran straight at the goose. He turned and ran as well as a goose can run, looking much like my ex-wife's mother, all the time flapping his wings in a vain attempt to achieve flight.

In my experience, a good flying tackle is the way to go, making certain that you grab the neck just below the head before you hit the ground. When you do hit, you roll, snapping the neck of the goose as you do. This generally eliminates the need to argue with the irate bird.  In fact, one of my nephew’s favorite memories of goose hunting from when he was maybe four or five years old was of me flying through the air, body parallel to the ground, as I dove (or is "dived" more proper?) on a goose just as it disappeared into a standing corn field. I emerged victorious and uninjured.

But I digress.

So there I was chasing the crippled goose through the field, slowly gaining ground when he unexpectedly slowed to almost a complete stop. I recall wondering "what in the world is this stupid goose doing", when he turned and leaped at my face!! What a rush!!

I tried to grab the goose’s neck in a counter-punching fashion and failed, but was lucky enough to move my face to the side just in time. Of course, being unencumbered by female companionship at the time, I wouldn’t have had to answer any questions about the little bite marks on my body. Still, I figured I’d avoid such contact with the goose any way. In some states, you can actually go to jail for those kinds of things.

The goose hit the ground again in full stride, and once again I continued the chase. Not far down the field, the goose again slowed and being the intelligent primate that I am, I deduced that he would once again make an attempt to eat my nose. I was ready.

He turned and leaped at me. This time, I was quick enough and was able to grab his neck before he was able to get a grip on any part of my body. I then spun him around, using his own body weight to break his neck and headed back to the blind.

My Dad and his friends had been watching this whole episode while offering no help. In fact, they had shot two more geese while I was on my quest. So it only follows that they would be paying strict attention to my progress across the field with my quarry in-hand when the alleged dead goose gained consciousness, gave one big flap of those very strong wings and put his elbow directly where it would gain my immediate attention. The result of this blow, as you may well imagine, was a tearful grunt of agony followed immediately by a dropping to the knees and clutching of the effected area. It also resulted in the merry guffaws of my hunting companions.

As I lay on the ground in obvious agony, still clutching the madly-flapping goose in my right hand and listening to the tears of joy coming from our blind, I conjured up no less than a dozen satisfying ways to subdue the evil beast. However, once I was able to use my legs again, my animosity toward the bird went away and I dispatched him as quickly as possible - making doubly certain this time of his untimely demise.

So I offer this tidbit of advice for any novice waterfowlers that might have the urge to chase a crippled goose. Do what I did after this warm and fuzzy event in my life.

Buy a dog.