A Canadian conspiracy -- sort of

VANCOUVER -- Next time Canadian geese waddle across the road in front of my car I’m gunning the gas.
The way I figure, it’s kill or be killed.
Let me explain.
After three days of canceled flights and bad weather, I finally took off Saturday morning en route to Vancouver. It was a wonderful takeoff. The captain has just extinguished the seat belt sign indicating that it is safe to get up and move about the cabin.
And then the geese hit. A whole flock of them, blood everywhere, our wings resembling the St. Joe’s Hawk.
I swear I’m not making this up.
You can guess the rest. The plane has to return to Philadelphia, geese blood and guts all over the place. After a safe landing and mechanical check, it is deemed unworthy to fly. I can’t make any connections, I’m re-routed via Chicago to Vancouver, my bags go somewhere else, a day that began with a 7 a.m. wakeup call ends 19 hours later.
Honestly, it was easier getting to Beijing two summers ago.
Or Sydney, four years before that.
Of course there were less Canadian geese around in those days.
So once I get back home, it’s war. I may go looking for them even. That way, if I ever meet my demise because of what happened Saturday, or take the kind of cold plunge those poor souls did in the Hudson 13 months ago after a similar geese crash, I’ll know I took a few of them out before they got me.
I’m still in the same clothes, by the way. But I bought a toothbrush.

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