"We have company," I said to my husband.

"Are they at the door?" he wondered.

"No, they're on the lawn," I replied. I pointed out the window to the area down by the lakefront. Fanned out across the grass were two dozen Canada geese happily munching on our lush, green lawn.

My husband growled, grabbed a pot and a metal spoon and went running down to the lake, banging on the pot like a lunatic to scare the geese away. But apparently, they knew he was all bang and no bite, and they simply strolled a little farther down the lawn away from the madman with the metal drum.

It's not that we don't like to commune with nature. We had moved onto a lake, after all. But the geese didn't want to commune. They wanted to eat grass and poop all over our lawn. One goose, maybe two we would accommodate. But an army of geese was not welcome. They were like your worst neighbor nightmare. They came over uninvited, made a lot of noise and left a big mess. It was, quite literally, Poopmageddon.

I looked back outside and saw that my husband had finally succeeded in getting the geese to fly the coop. But when he returned, I could tell he'd had enough of these particular scare tactics.

"Honey, I need your help with this," he said. "You're really good at finding solutions to things. Can you take over this goose thing and figure out how we can get rid of them for good?"

"Yes!" I said emphatically. "I will take this on. I will become Commander of the Goose Droppings!"

He stared at me.

"Whatever," he finally said. "Just find a way to get rid of the geese."

I wondered, at that moment, not why I had decided so enthusiastically to volunteer to take over this impossible project, but why I was limiting myself to the title of commander. It was a big responsibility, and I thought I should at least appoint myself a general or even an admiral. "Goose Admiral" had a much more authoritative ring to it than "commander." Certainly, it would command the respect of anyone who heard it, even though the geese wouldn't probably give two honks.

Regardless of what I called myself, I still had the problem of getting rid of the geese. I asked around, but no one else seemed to have a good solution, so I perused the internet and found a company called Goose-Be-Gone. It sounded promising.

"Hi, this is Tracy Beckerman," I said on the phone. "I'm the Goose Admiral, and I'm looking for help getting rid of some geese on our property."

"You're the what?" said the guy on the other end.

"The Goose Admiral. I'm in charge of getting rid of our geese."

He laughed. I frowned. It wasn't quite the respectful reaction I was looking for.

"Well, General..."

"Admiral," I interrupted.

"Well, Admiral, I have an army I can give you to help you with your mission," he said.

"What kind of army?" I asked.

"They are an army of trained border collies that will chase, harass and work to keep geese off your property."

"Sounds great! How does it work?" I wondered.

"We do randomly scheduled daily dog service visits until the geese learn that the area is not safe."

"How long does it take?"

"Several weeks or months."

"Wow! That's a long time!" I exclaimed. "Oh, wait. Now I see why it works."

"Why's that?" he said.

"After a few months, the geese fly south for the winter."

Tracy Beckerman is the author of the Amazon Bestseller "Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble," available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble online! You can visit her at www.tracybeckerman.com.

Photo credit: ArtTower at Pixabay