I shuddered with disgust when I read in the news that the city and county of Denver had rounded up and killed hundreds of Canada geese that had called Washington Park home.


The untimely demise of the waterfowl, whose only crime was befouling the park with what I presume was a great deal of goose shit, even brought out 130 or so protesters.

It’s bad enough that city officials saw fit to murder Canada geese, the politest of the Anatidae family of water birds, but to learn that the birds were then fed to needy families filled me with inarticulate rage.

Why was I so profoundly disturbed, you might ask? The answer is simple: Only I deserve free goose meat.

The city and county of Denver should, if it has any conscience at all, give the birds to me, all 225 or so. I’ll find the freezer space. You see, my grandmother made goose for Christmas in 1993, and I’ve never gotten over it. It’s so tasty. So delectable. It’s like the crack cocaine of roasted waterfowl.

And greasy. So greasy. Oil-spill greasy. It’s like an all-dark-meat turkey but greasier than 100 goats. Seriously, you can’t find oilier meat at a food truck parked outside a fracking site. The oil that drips into the pan alone keeps you in gravy for at least six weeks after Christmas.

I just checked online for goose that was reared outdoors and never saw the inside of a cage its entire blessed goose life. A humanely raised young goose carcass will cost me $159 plus shipping and handling. There’s no way I can afford that. That price doesn’t even include the roasting pan or the mashed potatoes I’ll need to soak up all that goose gravy.

Life has conspired to never allow me to sink my teeth into goose after that first, sweet taste 25 long years ago. And now I find out that I exist in some hideous phantom zone between moneyed enough to afford goose meat and sufficiently impoverished to get it for free down at the food pantry.

Now I’ve got nothing against needy families. Don’t get me wrong. But how many needy families, outside of a Charles Dickens novel, have feasted on succulent goose meat? Probably not that many, I presume. They won’t know what they are missing.

Me on the other hand …

Colorado has proven an expensive locale. Based on my current income, I won’t be taking that summer jaunt to New York City for deli food anytime soon. And I will surely have to pass if you are planning on a $40 all-you-can-eat sushi bonanza. So let me have some or preferably all of that sweet goose meat. I understand the profundity of Ebenezer Scrooge springing for goose at the end of “A Christmas Carol.” It’s really that tasty. Not everyone can make that claim. I implore you, city and county of Denver, don’t make me go back to slumming it with rotisserie chicken and the occasional Peking duck.

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