They’re trying to kill us.
Or, more specifically – me.
They’re trying to kill me, only I don’t think black duck really has his heart into it. He just seems to take orders from white duck.
And white duck is a total wiseguy.
And, yes, I’ve decided these two are male.
Sexist? Probably. But I’m betting no female ducks would try to kill me just because I forgot the crackers……again.
And that’s what happened last weekend.
We went to the marina and spent a lovely 150 degree day out on the boiling waters of the lake.
After many hours of baking in the sun, sweating like a whore in church on Sunday, I cried “uncle” and we headed back to the dock.
This is where it gets weird.
We hadn’t seen the ducks that day. The last time we’d seen them I had forgotten the crackers, but they were all like, “Quack, quack, quack” as they swam away, which I could only interpret as “No biggie – we’ll get some next time.”
We had, however, seen a definite increase in mallard duck presence. Duck turf wars being what they are, I presumed that white duck and black duck had lost the battle and had taken up residence elsewhere.
I was wrong.
Not only was I wrong, I was unprepared for the sudden return of black duck and white duck and their excruciatingly loud demand for
They waited, the sneaky bastids, until the boat was on the lift and I was preparing to step off onto the rail and then down on the dock before suddenly appearing out of nowhere onto the lift’s pontoon directly beneath me, squawking at the top of their little mob-duck lungs and scaring the absolute bejabbers out of me.
Their covert attack apparently achieved the desired effect as I swayed forward and backward like some completely blitzed gymnast, certain the fall onto the heavy metal structure below would put holes in my body that juuuuuuuuuusst might be inconsistent with a pain-free, bloodless existence.
My husband missed this life-and-death struggle and didn’t take notice of me until I was finally able to grab the dock’s support pole and slide/spin around it like a stripper, landing with a thud on the dock.
“What are you doing?” He asked, an eyebrow raised.
Ever cool, I replied, “Practicing.”
“Oh. Okay. You ready to go?” He asked, gathering up the last of our things and putting them in the cart.
“Yeah, sure.” I replied, now breathless and shaking a little, I followed him down the walkway.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that black duck and white duck were following us in the water…their little duck bodies gliding silently across the surface.
I swear they were laughing.
*Note to self: Next time, bring crackers….*
I’ve never understood the children’s game, “Duck, Duck, Goose!”…..and, if pressed, probably can’t remember the rules, object, or anything else about it.
Good thing it has noting to do with this post.
We have a boat.
Which reminds me, I don’t get the whole “I’m On A Boat” thing.
I do, finally, understand “The Cake is a Lie”…maybe I just need to ask Uncle Google about the boat.
Good thing it’s not important to the subject at hand as I’m too lazy to do any research.
No, this post is about..well, this:
The look of disdain is because we ran out of quackers…hahahahaha…”quackers”..get it?
Yes, I’m easily amused.
And White Duck – as I call him/her – I can’t tell the sex and really I think it’s a little early to ask the duck to lift his/her feathers for me, I mean we did just meet last weekend – was accompanied by Black Duck:
They were waiting for us at the dock when we decided that it was time to get off the lake, because the temperature at 11:00 a.m. was somewhere around 147 degrees, and I was beginning to turn bright red in spite of wearing SPF 50.
We fed them all the crackers we had, hubby even getting White Duck to take a cracker from his hand…something I totally missed on camera despite repeated attempts. The closest I came was a blur of feathers and water at the end of hubby’s empty hand.
As a photographer, I’m a pretty good duck feeder.
After all the food was gone the ducks swam around the slip for a while, complaining.
It wasn’t until we were back to the parking lot when I realized something.
Angry ducks+uncovered boat=a whole lotta duck poop to be cleaned.
Wonder if I can feign some illness this weekend so hubby can go out alone and spend the first thirty minutes of the day cursing me and the ducks.
(edited to add: OHMIGAWD, people!!! Why don’t you WARN me about asking Uncle Google questions like “What is I’m on a boat?” Hmmmm??? Why? Now, my ears are singed and I think there’s a piece of my soul missing. Thank you…ingrates)