“Lock her up!”

I walk my dog at a nearby wooded park four days per week, unless it’s pouring. (The fifth day is elsewhere.) Such walks are about an hour and 45 minutes, probably three miles, maybe four.
My dog is an Irish Setter, so is hunting the entire way. Lunging and pulling: sniffity-snort; barking furiously. “Come down outta that tree and fight! Meat for the table!”
Seasons are changing; fall-foliage triumphs, along with cooler temperatures. The geese are flying south, supposedly; although I’ve seen ‘em head north. “Hey man, who named you leader? South is the opposite direction — HONKA-HONKA!”
So here I was quietly padding behind my monster, and suddenly I heard an almighty racket. A huge gaggle of geese was on short final for a water-stop in one of the park’s two ponds.
“Sounds like a Trump rally,” I observed.
“Lock her up! Lock her up!” I imagine the geese chanting, while Orange-Man basks.
The park used to be a town water-supply. The geese use it as a water-stop flying south. Spring and Summer I see a few geese, but during Fall I see thousands and thousands, all honking loudly.
I used to imagine them goose-stepping to Limbaugh. That was before my wife died. Now the only one to cherish my comments is my dog, who is otherwise occupied.
Fortunately my dog isn’t attracted to geese — my previous dog was. Who knows how many times I was downed by my previous dog pursuing geese?
Them geese don’t seem to be advocating tolerance.