My Truce with the Geese, Those Miserable Rotten Bastards

My first interaction with the geese goes something like this:

I say, "Why, hello, Mr. handsome goose. I'm ever so pleased to make your acquaintance."
And he says, "You loathsome worm, I will tear the flesh from your bones with my razor-sharp beak and leave your entrails for the dogs and buzzards."
"Oh dear," I say, backing slowly towards the gate.
"That's right," he says, craning his neck with a menacing hiss. "You'd better leave these parts before old whitie back there gets angry. He will pluck your eyeballs from their sockets and savor them with your fresh blood."
"Right," I say. I flounder with the gate, frantic. "Well then, see you later on."
"You pig-smelling wench! May your offspring be trampled alive by wild boars!" the geese call after me.

Alan tells me not to worry, that I just need to pretend I'm not afraid and they'll leave me alone, that all geese are like this. I have confidence in his knowledge of animal husbandry, but am less certain of his experience with the mafia. So I finalize my last will and testament, take a sturdy broom, and return to the goose pen.

"Filthy goat-lover!" the geese scream, "come to get your throat slit, have you?"
"I'm not scared of you," I announce, and just to prove it I whack the brown one with the broom. "Take that, you miserable pile of pillow-feathers."

From that time, the geese and I have lived in a mutually agreed upon state of mortal hatred, moderated by the sturdy broom. Until last Tuesday.

We were planting fruit trees, which deserves a paragraph of its own:
Instructions For Fruit Trees
1. Wait until your neighbor is out of town.
2. Turn off the electric fence. Climb into said neighbor's yard with your spade and pitchfork.
3. Identify suitably-sized young trees. Dig them up, carry them back to your yard, plant and water copiously.

It's the watering copiously part that took me back to the East side, which is goose territory and also the home of the water faucet.
The geese come at me with their typical fury.
"Back off, you miserable bastards," I say from behind my sturdy broom. "I'm going to kill you and spread you on toast."
I turn on the hose. Suddenly, the geese are silent.
"I say," says the boss goose. "What's that?"
"I'm watering," I tell him. "Now F off or you'll get a beakful of hose water."
"Oh, please," he says. "Pretty please. Could I?"

"You like water?" I ask.
"Yes please, just spray me again."
"What are you doing?" I say. "Get away from my feet."
"Just a little love nibble," says the goose, "See, feel my feathers, aren't they soft? You can pet me now, I am just a gentle peaceful little bird. More water, please."

Thus I reach a tentative agreement with the geese: If I come without a hose, they hiss and bite me. If I turn on the water, they bow and nuzzle my feet. It's what farm life is all about: compromise, and a bit of insanity.