Kickass, the doorstop dog, passes along the keeper’s observation that during the close-to-a-century that he has been alive his relationship with the Canada geese has gone from farm-boy fascination with the high-flying V formations that signaled distant other-worlds of romantic wildness and mystery, to annoyance at the gangs of plump poopers that occupy lawns and soccer fields like gerrymandered Republicans.
In his state of perpetual discontent, the keeper watches from his and Phyllis’s 5thfloor Vista West view as flocks of the gerrymandered geese rise in disorderly bunches to move on to befoul the next green area; and it is while the feathered bums are attempting to form into an efficient flying formation that the keeper hears the following cacophony of honking:
“Where are we going?”
“Who is leading?”
“Can we get into a V here.”
“No more V’s. Now we fly in S’s”
“Who decided that?”
“The Johnsons and that crazy bunch who hang out with loons and turkeys.”
“How does the new “S” formation represent our identity?
“Think of a four-letter word that starts with S, is not used in polite company and identifies us on the golf courses, especially those with “sub par” Republican caddies.
“Tuberville! Stop “S” ing while we’re trying to get into formation.
“Marjorie, no more loop-to-loop until we are in our “S.”