Goose on the Run! A Thanksgiving Tale

Life in the city wasn’t easy for Gus the Goose. Sure, it had its perks—an endless supply of breadcrumbs from well-meaning park-goers, a scenic pond in Central Park, and the occasional pigeon fight to keep things interesting. But as Thanksgiving approached, things took a dark turn.

It started on Monday, when Gus overheard two food bloggers discussing trendy holiday recipes near his pond.

“I’m telling you, roasting a goose is so 2024,” one said, adjusting her oversized scarf. “Turkeys are basic. Goose is the new thing.”

Gus froze. Goose is the new thing? That wasn’t a trend he wanted to be part of. He waddled closer, pretending to peck at the ground while eavesdropping.

“Yeah,” the other blogger chimed in. “There’s this place downtown that sources fresh geese from the park. They say it’s farm-to-table, but it’s more like pond-to-plate.”

Gus swallowed hard. Pond-to-plate? He didn’t even like being pond-to-anywhere, let alone someone’s dinner.

By Tuesday, Gus was in full panic mode. He paced around the pond, muttering to himself. His friend Tony the Pigeon landed nearby, pecking at a half-eaten bagel.

“Yo, Gus, you good? You look like you saw a cat.”

“I wish it was just a cat,” Gus said, his feathers ruffling. “I heard I’m on the menu for Thanksgiving. This Thanksgiving!”

Tony cocked his head. “What? Nah, bro, they can’t just—” He paused. “Actually, yeah, they totally can. You’re a goose.”

“Thanks for the support,” Gus snapped. “I need a plan.”

Tony shrugged. “Fake your own death? That’s what I did last week to get out of pigeon racing. Works like a charm.”

Gus shook his head. “Too dramatic. I need something smarter.”

Tony pecked at the bagel thoughtfully. “What if you, like, disguise yourself? Make ‘em think you’re not a goose.”

By Wednesday morning, Operation Gobble-Gobble was in full swing. Gus raided a nearby costume shop’s dumpster and found a discarded feather boa, some glue, and a pair of broken sunglasses. After some strategic application, he waddled over to the park fountain to check his reflection.

“Perfect,” he muttered. He looked ridiculous—but ridiculous enough to not be a goose? He hoped so.

He strutted out into the park, his glued-on feathers flapping awkwardly. As he passed by a group of tourists, he threw in a few awkward “gobble-gobbles” for good measure.

“Mommy, look!” a little kid said. “A turkey with sunglasses!”

“See?” Gus whispered to himself. “Totally convincing.”

But things took a turn for the worse on Thursday morning. Just as Gus was starting to relax, a sleek black van pulled up near the pond. The side read “Artisan Fowl Co.” in fancy cursive lettering. A man in a chef’s coat stepped out, holding a clipboard.

Gus’s heart dropped. They found me.

“Alright,” the chef said to his assistant, scanning the park. “We need one more goose. A fat one.”

Gus tried to waddle away casually, but the glue had dried his extra feathers stiff, and he tripped over his own webbed feet.

“There’s one!” the assistant shouted. “The one with the feather boa!”

“Grab him!” the chef barked.

Gus flailed, honking wildly. “I’M NOT A GOOSE! I’M A TURKEY! GOBBLE-GOBBLE!”

The chef blinked. “Did… did that goose just say gobble?”

“Definitely,” the assistant said. “But it’s a goose. Fancy restaurants love weird stuff like that.”

The chase was on. Gus sprinted—well, waddled—as fast as he could through Central Park. Pigeons scattered, squirrels stopped mid-nut, and tourists whipped out their phones, thinking it was some kind of performance art.

“HELP!” Gus honked, flapping frantically. “THEY’RE GONNA ROAST ME!”

He darted through a playground, slipped under a bench, and dove into a trash can, but the chef was relentless.

Finally, cornered near a hot dog stand, Gus turned to face his fate.

“Alright, fine!” he honked. “You got me! But at least let me have one last meal!”

The chef, amused, nodded. “Sure, why not? What’s your last request?”

Gus pointed a shaky wing at the hot dog stand. “One of those.”

The vendor handed him a hot dog. Gus took a dramatic bite, chewing slowly, savoring every moment.

Then he paused. Something tasted… familiar.

Too familiar.

“Wait a minute,” Gus whispered, looking at the hot dog. His eyes widened. “IS THIS… GOOSE?!”

The vendor shrugged. “Yeah, man. Goose dogs are the new thing.”

Gus’s world went dark as the realization hit him.

Later that evening, at a trendy downtown restaurant, a group of food bloggers gathered around a beautifully roasted goose. The chef stood proudly by the table.

“This,” he announced, “is the finest goose in the city. Fresh from Central Park. We call it Urban Gourmet.”

The bloggers clapped, their cameras flashing. And as they dug in, somewhere in pigeon heaven, Tony the Pigeon shook his head.

“Told you to fake your own death, bro.”