Don't go a-searchin' up Goose Ridge.
"I'm looking for my dog. I stopped on the side of the road to let him out, and he took off. I think he went up that way."
"I ain't seen yer pooch, friend. But if'n it ran yonder, you can quit yer searchin'. That up there's Goose Ridge."
"That doesn't sound too scary."
"Reckon it don't. But 'fraid I gotta tell you: Yer hound is dead."
"Why? What's up there?"
"Only a vineyard -- "
"-- That's doesn't sound too --"
"-- Guarded by the most ferocious pack of Canada Geese this side of the Rio! Reckon they've already pecked yer pooch with'n their razor-beaks and a'flapped at 'im with their wings."
"Those beasts worship no sane god, friend. Those rich, dark cabernet grapes are to those geese what the apple was to Eve. Mmmhmmm."
"If I get up there, I might stop them before they --"
"Don't be a fool, stranger. Those geese'd spill yer guts before you even got a-hollerin' to yer mutt. Let it go…"
"Oh, there he is! Good boy, Harold!"
"Hrmph. This old tin-can soothsayer's gonna be right one of these days. Hooey."