His Highness and I were on a nature walk with Taz and Wiley, looking forward to watching the Canada Geese migration. The dog and puppy running, herding, and using logs and debris as an agility course seemingly custom designed for their Blue Heeler joy and enlightenment.
Overhead, the harsh cries of Canada geese signal their annual migration to warmer southern climes. There were over 100 honking along in several untidy V formations. No sign yet of the single straggler that each year inevitably flies frantically along, honking desperately in the errant hope it is actually heading in the right direction.
We stand admiring the avian beauty of nature’s cycle.
His Highness suddenly exclaims, “They got me!”
I turn to see a large blotch of shat that has landed on the arm of his coat. A small going away present that in some marvel of physics has unerringly departed the bird’s behind only to vector into a direct hit.
“That’s a sign of good luck,” I sweetly inform His Highness.
“I think some got on my hat too!” he complains grumpily.
“Definitely good luck,” I repeat.
In the Pacific Northwest, that’s what is always said to the one shat upon by the one hoping to never be so lucky.