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Duck, Duck, Wha….?

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:

I'm a Duck on a Boat...sort of...I'm actually on the lift that holds up the boat...that my famous twin, who sells insurance, owns but won't let me ride. I haz a sad.

 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:

Hi, I'm Black Duck and I follow White Duck...EVERYWHERE!

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)

I Am A Dangerous Woman

….or “How I Almost Shot My Cat”

Back in the early ’90s we lived in a rental house that was on a very popular route for kids skipping going to school.

As a result, there had been a recent break-in at my house. 

My neighbor scared the kid off, or else he just felt so sorry for us he decided not to mess with anything.

Who knows?

Anyway, it left the family a bit twitchy.

And, we are Texans.

Armed Texans.

Twitchy, armed Texans.

A few days after the break-in I was home alone  when I heard a commotion coming from the garage.

With the recent crime still fresh in my memory I stealthily snuck past the garage door and into my bedroom where I knew the firearms were kept.

I heard the noises, again, as I looked around the room.  I was sure the burglar was now a whole gang of burglars and not only were they not concerned with being quiet, they were boldly marching towards the door that led to the house and I was moments away from confronting a gang of noisy, clumsy burglars.

It’s funny how the mind will go completely blank when gripped with rising fear.

I couldn’t remember where the guns were.

Then, I heard a loud THUMP! on the door that led to the garage.

That did it, my fear was pushed aside and I found the gun.

I grabbed it, released the safety and quietly tiptoed back to the garage door. 

The noisy burglars were now playing hockey in the garage.

With a bag of rocks, or so it sounded to me.

Grasping the doorknob I flung the door open and yelled, “FREEZE!!!”, as I pointed the gun at…..my cat.

Our big Siamese, Smokey, had been playing with some paper he found in the garage.

Smokey stared at me, and I swear I heard him sigh….stoopid hoomin.

Amazing how much a twenty-five pound cat, playing  with paper in an empty garage, can sound like a gang of brazen, clumsy burglars isn’t it?