06/14/2026
Guess since they are appropriately dressed for flag day, it's a good day for Hattie Jo (middle goose) to introduce Dominic (donkey) and Della (right goose).
Della left the city in a pickup truck, determined to make some dreams come true. Ask where she came from and she'll tell you she was born north of somewhere and south of someplace else.
She has a number imprinted on her base, some whisper it is an old case number tied to an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a seed bank and several missing packets of heirloom sunflower seeds. Della has never confirmed the story. She has never denied it either.
There is another detail Della never speaks of.
When she first arrived, her head wasn't attached.
Someone, somewhere along the road, carefully put her back together again. The faint scar around her neck remains, not as a mark of damage, but as proof that some things are worth mending.
When word of Della's arrival spread, Hattie Jo came home from the Post Office to see for herself.
Hattie Jo has a scar of her own.
She understood.
No questions were asked.
A few days later, Dominic arrived.
He came in the back of a pickup truck, delivered by kind strangers on an afternoon when they were on their way to say goodbye to someone they loved. Between grief and remembrance, they paused in a funeral home parking lot and placed Dominic into waiting hands.
Life has a way of sharing the same road with sorrow and joy.
Dominic carried a touch of Italy with him. Around Christmastime, if the wind is just right, some swear they can hear him humming an old tune about a little donkey who carried hope, luck, and holiday cheer.
His arrival seemed ordinary enough.
Until he saw Della.
The stage was set when the lights went out.
There was death in Tucson town.
Della studied him for a long moment.
"You took your time," she said.
Dominic flicked one long ear.
"I had business in Tucson," he replied.
Neither offered another explanation.
Perhaps they were strangers brought together by coincidence at the end of a gravel driveway.
Perhaps they had crossed paths years before in a small café down Tucson way, where a little cowboy tune drifted through the evening air.
Perhaps they recognized in one another the quiet understanding shared by those who have traveled long roads, collected a few scars, and discovered that being repaired does not lessen your story. It deepens it.
Now they stand watch at the end of the driveway.
Della, keeper of secrets.
Dominic, carrying old songs from Italy and dust from distant roads.
Hattie Jo, who knows that broken things can be made whole again.
And if the three of them know more than they're willing to say, they seem content to let the mystery remain.
After all, not every story needs explaining.
Some stories arrive in pickup trucks.
Some bear old scars.
And some simply find their way home.