 There is a certain goose which lives on Westhampton Lake. It is unavoidable and unmissable. Westhampton Lake is the central point of navigation on campus, the Champs Elysee of UR if you will. Walking from class to class, you will pass along the lake’s shores at some point throughout your day. And there you will spy the goose.
 Its origins are shrouded in mystery. I have yet to find a faculty member who remembers the campus without Triceragoose, so called because of the horn-like protrusion above his beak. It seems that from time immemorial Triceragoose has waddled menacingly through the collective psyche of UR like a feathered poltergeist, threatening all who cross him with the threat of destruction. Needless to say, no one had told me about Triceragoose.
 But I have gotten ahead of myself.
 Before “Black Tuesday”, my first Monday of classes had gone swimmingly. Fiding my classes (the biggest worry for all beginning college students) wasn’t a problem, as I had gotten my bearings over orientation weekend. I got wonderful first impressions of my professors and the class content as a whole, and already found some familiar faces from the previous week.
 Tuesday seemed to be going along even better than my first day. My first class was ROTC, which was as smooth and personable as an officers’ training class could be. (And despite its commencing at the unholy hour of 8:15.) It was then on to my Core class, which was as smooth and as personable as Core class could be. (Core- or Exploring Human Experience- is the only class that all UR students are required to take, and operates on the principle that nothing binds a student body together like collective writers block.) My mid-day Spanish class went similarly well. After lunch, I began the trek to my final class of the day, Russian Revolution, and found myself walking alone along the shores of Westhampton Lake.
 And then I heard a quack.
 I remembered from my 6th grade computer teacher- a thoroughly grizzled, Nick Nolte-esque Vietnam veteran- that if you heard the bullet, it meant you weren’t hit. So there was that consolation. I peered around anxiously to find the source of the shrill cry, and soon settled upon a vision of terror unequalled in all my previous experience. (And this coming from a guy who saw the latest Indiana Jones film.)
 Triceragoose, protrusion and all, stood about four meters in front of me. Still ignorant of the fowl’s fierce reputation, I made no effort to slow my pace- I figured that any animal that didn’t possess fangs, horns, or neurotoxin would be sensible enough to give way to an obviously rushed homo sapien.
 The frayed fabric on the bottom of my shorts attests to the error of this judgement. With a banshee-like honk, Triceragoose was upon me. It took what seemed an eternity for this to register: Was this goose seriously attacking me? Who did this goose think he was? Why am I having an internal monologue with a goose mauling my thigh?
 Coming to, I did what could only be described as a cross between a missile drop kick and the jitterbug until Triceragoose released the hem of my shorts from its vice grip, waddling away with a cackle that was surely goose-speak for “Get out my face, son.” Gathering my dignity, I found my way to class and continued on with a day that- minus the animal attack- was even better than the previous one.
 And so, dear reader (but in particular you future spiders) I urge you to learn from my cautionary tale. If you are walking along the scenic shore of Westhampton Lake- be it as a budding freshmen or a middle-aged power walker- and you spy a flock of geese with a disfigured feathered don at its head, give way, continue onwards, and nod in silent homage to the lake’s true overlord.
