It’s that time of year again. The geese are back.

They’re in the park. They’re in the parking lot. They’re standing in the middle of the road like they own the place, and honestly? They kind of do. They were here first. They’ll be here after us. The geese do not care about your schedule, your car, or your opinion about them.

And I love them. I genuinely, sincerely love Canadian geese.

I know this is an unpopular position. I know the internet has collectively decided that geese are the villains of the bird world. Cobra chickens. Honking menaces. Nature’s anger management dropouts. I’ve heard it all. I get it. They hiss. They chase people. They leave an unreasonable amount of poop on every surface they touch.

But have you ever actually looked at one?

The black neck rising up into that clean white chin strap. The way they hold themselves — chest out, eyes forward, absolutely certain of their place in the world. They fly in perfect formation across a grey February sky and it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ll ever see if you bother to look up. Their wingbeats sound like something ancient. Because it is. These birds have been doing this longer than we’ve had cities for them to inconvenience.

Sarah loves them too, which is one of the many reasons I married her. We’ll be driving somewhere and a V-formation will pass overhead and we both just… stop talking and watch. Every time. It never gets old. Some couples have a song. We have geese.

There’s another reason, though. A bigger one. And it’s the real reason I’m writing this.

Years ago, we had a ginger cat named Reno L. Pepe. Reno was wonderful in the way that certain cats are wonderful — not because he was particularly well-behaved or elegant, but because he was himself so completely. He had a presence. You knew when Reno was in the room.

We lost Reno to cancer. Too young. Way too young.

And in the way that grief makes you reach for something — anything — to make the world make sense again, I made up a story. Reno got a new job. He works with his friend Goose now. Goose is a Canadian goose, obviously. The two of them fly around together, and whenever an animal gets hit by a car, Reno and Goose are the ones who show up. They escort that animal to the afterlife. They make sure nobody goes alone.

I made it up to make myself feel better. But the thing about stories you tell yourself during grief is that sometimes they stick. Sometimes they grow roots. And at some point, somewhere along the way, this stopped being a story I made up and became something I actually believe. It’s part of my faith now, in whatever weird patchwork way faith works for me. Reno and Goose are out there. They’ve got a job to do.

So when I see the geese come back every year, it’s not just “oh cool, the geese are back.” It’s a reminder. Reno’s buddy is out there somewhere in that formation, honking his way across the sky, taking care of business. And Reno is right there with him, a ginger cat riding shotgun with a goose, making sure the world is a little less lonely for the ones who need it.

That’s why I love Canadian geese. Not because they’re misunderstood. Not because I’m trying to be contrarian. Because every time I see one, I think of Reno, and I think of the job they’re doing, and it makes the world feel a little more okay.

The geese are back. And I’m glad.