When we were first married, we lived in a little cottage near a lake. In the late fall of the year it was not uncommon to wake up in the morning to the sounds of gun shots being fired as hunters, camped out in bird blinds before sunrise, gained first line of fire on migrating ducks and/or geese.
As the days progressed, we often watched large flocks of geese, in "V" formation, hover in for a landing on the open water just off the shoreline of the small lake. One weekend, a neighbor decided that with so many geese afloat in the water, one wouldn't be missed, and he resolved to select a bird well suited one for their meal. Shortly after this decision, with shotgun in hand, Stan marched to the shoreline, took aim, and shot a goose. Of course the 85 mobile flock members immediately took flight, leaving one flightless brother floating about 100 yards off shore.
At this point, I think the value of a dog, particularly a hunting dog trained in the skills of retrieving, became apparent. Determined to follow through on goose dinner, Stan located one of the few remaining boats still in the autumn water, and rowed his way to the fallen goose. Once the boat was safely returned to it's mooring, Stan had about an hour into goose recon. On to the dressing of the goose.
Next, Stan moved vehicles out of the garage attached to his home and improvised a make-shift station to prepare the goose. He removed the innards, located a catch-basin for collection of the fluids to be drained, and began the painstakingly slow and tedious job of removing ALL of the feathers.
Several hours into the hunting endeavor, he announced that the goose was ready to roast and, goose dinner was just hours away.
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