Whenever we played Duck, Duck, Goose on the playground when I was a child, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and prayed the tapper would declare me a “duck” instead of a “goose.” Though I was a pretty fast runner (when no one was watching), I was much too self-conscious to run quickly enough to catch the tapper. This meant that once I was tapped as the goose, I’d become the permanent goose for the remainder of recess.

Today, I was chosen by the crapper, not the tapper.

My mom and dad are visiting from Eastern Kentucky, but not for a social visit. Mom had hip replacement surgery this morning. We had to be at the surgery center bright and early; thankfully, Mom’s surgery went well. It’s her second go round with hip replacement. She’s been in so much pain with her right hip, the surgery was a huge relief for her. She’s already back at my house, relaxing and eating a sandwich while Nurse Jersey (my 12-and-a-half-year-old Schnauzer) stands guard.

Anyway, I arrived at the surgery center this morning right behind my parents after running through the drive-thru to pick up a sausage and egg McMuffin for Dad. I parked my new-to-me car (a Nissan Rogue named Cozy) in what I deemed a secure parking spot. My chosen parking spot was a little bit of a walk from the surgery center entrance, but I was okay with the walk as long as my car was safely out of the way of other vehicles. Since I drove my old car (which was such a shambles) for so long, I’m really committed to keeping my new car clean and free of scratches and dents.

On the way into the building, I skirted cautiously past a pair of geese who were honking loudly and angrily at a lone goose who, I assumed, was infringing on their territory. I had to maneuver off the sidewalk to avoid walking between the outraged birds.

Imagine my chagrin when I emerged from the surgery center several hours later to find that those very birds, to whom I had been so deferential, had chosen my car as the “goose.” One of those geese, we’ll call him the crapper…chose my car as his target. He not only relieved his anxiety, he publicly aired his gut-related health issues all over my car. Goose poop was everywhere! It was splattered on the front windshield, plopped on the hood, and dolloped down the front and back passenger side doors and windows. My car looked as painfully self-conscious as I used to feel when chosen as the goose in those long-ago playground games. Covered, and I mean covered, in goose poop, poor Cozy couldn’t believe her bad luck.

“Oh well,” I reasoned, “at least we’re members of the carwash club.”

I called my husband on the way home and told him what happened. Because I’m still recovering from gallbladder surgery, he offered to climb up after work and reach the worst of the goose poop on top of the car. There’s a huge pile of it on my sunroof. There’s so much poop, in fact, that I can’t go through the carwash until it’s removed. I hoped it would blow off on my way home…but no such luck. Looks as if my car will be the “goose” for the rest of the day at least. It’s recess all over again…