Hi, my name's Bob, I here about the geese for sale.

[askmrjesus]

This is shaping up to be a shitty day.

Ordinarily, at 6am on Saturday, I'd still be in bed. Maybe get up around 8, have some coffee, and watch F1 qualifying on the tube.

Bob, however, had other plans.

Why the fuck is he here so early?

Let's rewind, and back up a bit. My wife, for reasons unknown to me, decided we needed some geese. So, when I was out of town, she bought 10. Why 10? I don't know that either, maybe they come in ten packs.

The "plan" was to sell some of the geese, and keep a few. That plan went out the window, when Bob showed up this morning.

A little after 6, the dogs went crazy. Barking and howling like mad. Something had them all wound up, so my wife let them out, thinking there may be a coon or a possum in the goose/chicken yard. Yeah, I know, chickens too, FML.

Turns out, it wasn't a coon or a possum. It was Bob.

Did I mention that Bob is a cat? As in Bobcat. As in a seriously pissed off, hissing at me, possibly rabid, recently wounded by our Great Pyrenees, goose eating Bobcat.

Fuck me. It's way too early for this shit. Wife is screaming, dog is screaming, goose is screaming, Bobcat is screaming. In short, there's a whole lot of fucking screaming going on, and I haven't had coffee yet.

Step one: Grab shotgun.

Step two: Pull the dogs off the Bobcat. Believe it or not, this procedure is not covered in the goose raising handbook, (clearly an oversight on the part of the author).

Step three: Do not shoot the Bobcat. Why you ask? Because, the Bobcat is "cute", and now in need of help. The dog did a number on him.

Step four: Attempt to load a live, wounded Bobcat, into a dog crate.

Step five: Fuck that shit.

Step six: Call county animal control. "Can you describe the Bobcat?", "Um, sure. Big teeth, furry, pissed off."

Step seven: Hang up, these people are idiots.

Sadly, a few minutes later, Bob succumbed to what I believe were internal injuries.

RIP Goose.

RIP Bob.

JC