I Confronted a USDA Wildlife Operation in Lyndhurst, NJ at 6:12 AM. Here Is How Our Town Stood Up With Me.

When a federal contractor claimed Lyndhurst approved a local goose slaughter right in our Meadowlands backyard, our community teamed up to stop the machine.

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Since I was old enough to walk and talk, I have made a quiet, personal promise to the animals. Every time I see our local wildlife, I bless them, tell them I love them, and promise to protect them. Anyone who knows me knows this is the baseline frequency I walk through life with.

At 6:12 AM on June 24, 2026 — my son’s high school graduation day — I was lured into playing tag by my cat, Dipper, while my kids ate breakfast. Had it not been for Dipper, I never would have looked out my living room window.

But I did.

What I saw across the street changed everything: a USDA wildlife surveyor was marking land in our neighborhood park, preparing a covert operation to round up and kill our local geese and goslings.

I didn’t plan a confrontation. I didn’t think about politics or bureaucracy. My heart simply took over. I grabbed my phone, walked down to the riverbank, and stood between a stranger in a USDA backpack and the vulnerable goose families in their flightless molting season.

I expected an ugly, uphill battle against a system that would ignore my pleas. I had no idea that within hours, my single act of love would expose a massive systemic disconnect — and, reveal a surprising gift in my own backyard: an infrastructure of compassion that was already built right into our local leadership.

The Confrontation

When I approached the wildlife surveyor, I was determined to keep my composure. Because I stayed calm, the truth of this federal program was exposed on camera. The sugarcoated double-talk used to mask cruelty became completely see-through.

**Me:** Hi. You’re with the USDA?

USDA Surveyor: Hi. Correct. Yes.

**Me: **What are you doing here, surveying our geese? Are you here to gas our geese and kill them?

USDA Surveyor: We’re doing some work for Teterboro Airport… It is a capture program. Yes.

Me: Capture, meaning kill. Murder.

USDA Surveyor: Yes. We will be capturing the geese and they will be humanely euthanized.

Me: When is murder ever humane? When is it ever okay? These are animals that feel and have families and love them and protect them. Just like you, just like me.

As the conversation continued, she gave me her official excuse — pointing to a management radius for Teterboro Airport — and dropped a massive claim of local government permission.

*Me: *Did our county, Bergen County, approve this? ..Lyndhurst approved it?

**USDA Surveyor: **Lyndhurst did. Yes.

**Me:** The township of Lyndhurst, the government here approved this — For you to come and murder our geese?

USDA Surveyor: They approved us to come out and capture and humanely euthanize. Yes.

This exchange exposed the deep shadow of institutional systems — treating living, bonded families who mate for life as mere airspace math and a bounty of money-makers for contracted wildlife exterminators.

I went back to my house with the video — shaking. I knew the clock was ticking. Through my volunteer work with the Animal Protection League of New Jersey (APLNJ), I knew that once the surveyor appears, execution teams usually follow within hours. The geese were entirely defenseless without their flight feathers. I dropped my kids off for their last day of school and quickly rearranged my morning plans. Then, I braced myself for the bureaucratic brick wall I was sure I’d hit. I immediately began making phone calls to Doreen Frega at APLNJ, our local government, and then the County Sheriff’s office. Then I showed up at the Lyndhurst Parks Department.

The Frequency Shift

What happened over the next few hours shocked me and melted away my feelings of isolation in fighting for a kinder world.

When I called the Mayor’s office, the regular assistant was away. A lovely young woman named Carina — the Mayor’s niece — was filling in. Carina listened. She felt the weight of my words, tapped into empathy, and promised to get the message directly to the Mayor.

She kept her word.

What followed was a surreal chain reaction of higher consciousness leadership. Mayor Giangeruso called me directly from his personal cell phone on his downtime. He didn’t send a staffer. He called me three more times and personally took two of my calls throughout the course of the day to check in. The Mayor openly expressed how deeply upset he was, sharing his personal love for animals and stating unequivocally that it was fundamentally wrong for them to be treated this way.

First on the scene to take my official statement were Bergen County Sheriff’s Officers Lopero and Epifano — please forgive me if I’ve misspelled your names. Having spent a lifetime defending animals in an uphill climb, I was nervous. But these officers listened, watched the video footage and helped determine that the jurisdiction belonged to Lyndhurst authorities. Officer Epifano expressed with great conviction that Bergen County would never allow such an inhumane slaughter on its park properties.

Simultaneously, Doreen Frega from APLNJ moved swiftly, looping in major county players like Councilwoman Julie O’Connor who contacted Commissioner Tanelli — an architect behind Bergen County Ordinance 22–10, which protects geese from inhumane removal.

Yet, the core issue remained: the “goose management” order had originated through the Lyndhurst Parks Department. I panicked, fearing a cover-up was already in motion.

Then my phone rang. It was Lyndhurst Commissioner Mateen.

He had reviewed the confrontation video I forwarded. After introducing himself, his next words to me were entirely transparent: “I am so sorry. I had no idea this was happening. It’s disheartening when your federal government tells you something and you believe it to be true, only to find out it’s not.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Commissioner Mateen understood the absolute urgency of the situation and chose to act.

The Power of Accountability

When local leaders operate from the heart, a cold system doesn’t stand a chance. Deep concerns were raised because the USDA surveyor’s claims on camera differed completely from what Lyndhurst officials had previously been led to believe about their federal wildlife management practices.

Our town leadership acted with staggering speed and integrity. Urgent calls were made, the paperwork was reviewed, and municipal permission was immediately rescinded.

Within hours of that 6:12 AM video, at the behest of Commissioner Mateen and with the full backing of the Mayoral Office, the USDA confirmed in writing that they would cease all wildlife management activities on Township of Lyndhurst property.

A covert slaughter operation was ended — in a single afternoon.

The timing could not be more poignant. Right now, as the World Cup brings a massive global spotlight directly to our backyard at the Meadowlands, Lyndhurst had a choice in how we would be defined.

Because of our leadership’s swift action, we refused to become another taxpayer-funded casualty of a federal mercenary machine. We chose not to line the pockets of government-contracted exterminators who treat living beings like a racket for blood money. We chose to show the world our character instead.

From the slaughter of geese near Teterboro Airport to the elimination of swans in California’s Suisun Marsh, wildlife across this country is being sacrificed for political perks and corporate bounties. Every municipality in America — and beyond — needs to wake up, audit their federal wildlife management contracts, and look at exactly what they are signing off on — unless they simply don’t care about the slaughter.

The Illumination: We Are Not Alone

Writing this 48 hours later, I am overwhelmed with pride and respect for the town I call home.

During our conversations, Commissioner Mateen didn’t just display professional accountability — he took a chance and showed up with his heart. He told me about his own love for birds, sharing that just the day before, he had personally rescued a hurt dove. He even texted me pictures of it. That simple, profound gesture built an immediate bridge of trust. Anyone kind and generous enough to aid helpless animals is a good-hearted person. Period.

That was the exact moment I finally exhaled and my shoulders dropped. I knew the geese would be safe.

Aviation Safety

Bird strikes are a real concern, and no one wants to see people or wildlife harmed. The question isn’t whether conflicts should be addressed — it’s whether we’re using the most effective, humane, and sustainable solutions available before resorting to killing.

Compassion and public safety do not have to be in competition. We can choose both. The challenge is having the courage and commitment to invest in solutions that honor both.

What I Know For Sure

What this experience has shown me — what I now know for sure — is that love is never wasted. When you tap into that deep, instinctual place that says, “Not on my watch,” you create a literal frequency shift in the world around you.

I went outside at 6:12 AM to confront a surveyor, but what I actually did was open a door for compassion to walk through. And look who walked through it with me. The Mayor, the Commissioner, a young woman filling in at an office, the responding officers — all stepping out of their official titles to reveal their souls. That is the real miracle here. The unfeeling machinery didn’t just stop because of a policy; it stopped because human hearts aligned.

We so often assume our leaders are disconnected, operating inside a system that has no room for empathy. But in a single afternoon, a small town in New Jersey proved that integrity can move faster than federal bureaucracy. When we find the courage to stand up for the vulnerable, we unlock a hidden well of goodness in humanity. The universe is just waiting for us to do that. And when we do, everything changes.

The goslings of Lyndhurst will grow up on that riverbank this summer. And for the rest of us, we are left with a powerful, lingering truth: the systems we think are untouchable are only as strong as our willingness to stay silent.