No Christmas cheer for my pet goose . . .

WHEN I was 12 years old, my mother sadly passed away. My father had died when I was two and I had no siblings, so I went to live with an aunt, who also died two years later. a former neighbour, who had moved away to go into farming, took me in until my very last relations, an uncle and aunt who were in the process of moving down from london, could have me. While I was on the farm, a baby gosling was hatched with a deformed leg. I looked after it and fed it. It came to recognise me and would be excited when I appeared. I loved this little bird and all my sadness was diverted into making sure he was all right. the aunt and uncle settled into village life with a chicken run at the bottom of the garden and a pig in a shed to fatten up, as did most country people just after the war. When it was time for me to go and live with them, the farmer said I could take my baby goose, whom I called toby. My aunt and uncle had no children of their own and, when I arrived complete with baby goose, they were not exactly delighted. toby settled in with the chickens, but, because he was the only goose, he made a lot of noise. I used to go to him before and after school and soothe him until he was quiet. One day I returned from school and there was no toby. My aunt said that he wasn’t well and the vet had taken him to the animal hospital to get him better. I kept asking if they had heard how he was. then came Christmas, and we sat down for dinner. suddenly the penny dropped. ‘We are eating toby!’ I said, and burst into tears. they assured me it wasn’t, but I knew different and couldn’t eat a thing. It was not a happy time and, at 17, I went off to make my own way in life. During my 65 years of married life we had many pets, but I never forgot toby.