Isn’t it exciting? This is the first full point award given or received in my ongoing struggle in a very long time! You should all be equally excited to see that I’ve finally broken even (which, theoretically, should mean that Nature will call off the battle as unwinnable and you won’t have to suffer through anymore of my emails). I also am holding out hope for a truce as it means that I, personally, won’t have to endure any more of the pre-email suffering (and this time there was a bit more than usual).
First, let me preface this by saying that I was out for a morning walk when it happened. I know. I’m pretty much a one-trick pony when it comes to framing for my mostly-non-fiction, and this fact dawned on me before I sat down to write this. I almost considered not writing anything at all, just to keep you guys from typecasting me, but this was just too good to pass up. So, at the risk of letting you all down with my lack of imagination, I will press on with my standard-fare opening.
It was nice and somewhat comfortable this morning—cloudy and a little balmy, but not hot—and, even though we’re under a tornado watch, it didn’t look like any significant weather was moving in any time soon. I also had an hour or so to kill before needing to leave for my morning class in McPherson, so I decided to spend it not sitting in front of the TV or computer for a change. Thus, the walk.
I had actually decided to avoid the park, just to try and avoid any potential problems, which brought me, in a roundabout way, to the roads west of the park. Sadly, since this is not my normal neighborhood, I ended up getting a little lost and walking on some unpaved gravel and dirt roads. Since it was starting to sprinkle and I didn’t have much desire to get all muddy, I headed for the only place that I knew had paved roads—back to
My first step into the corner of the park’s property boded ill for my chances of getting out of there without something weird happening. I saw a forty-something man being interrogated and then cuffed-and-stuffed by five cops (with three vehicles and, as far as I could see, none of the assault rifles that I naturally associate our town’s police force since their kind removal of the coyote from our yard a few years back). Obviously, my first thought was how I could turn this into a story. Was this loveable hippie being harassed by The Man in my own backyard? Were his rights being quashed? I eyed the goings-on carefully, watching for something interesting to happen.
Sadly, nothing really did. And, upon closer inspection, I saw that the guy wasn’t a hippie. I didn’t KNOW this, of course, since I never spoke with him and he certainly wasn’t wearing a shirt that said “Where’s My Bong?” Still, I feel pretty safe in my assumption that no self-respecting free-lover would wear a mullet and a worn out hair-band t-shirt. That might be an unfair stereotype on my part, but it’s mine and I’m going to run with it. So, this wasn’t a case of The Man harassing some innocent type, it was a case of some drunk or violent or stupid or all of the above hillbilly getting busted for doing something illegal.
Slightly disappointed, I continued on my way to the path and started for home. Before I was able to leave the park, though, I saw a somewhat odd site. Down along the bank, I saw a male mallard poking his beak and something white. At first I thought it was a Wal-Mart bag that had blown into the water, but a closer look revealed it to be a dead domesticated duck. Those of you not currently looking up “domesticated duck” on Wikipedia, as I am, might not know that these usually white (around here at least) ducks are actually descendents of the mallard. Which makes them species-compatible and the hypothesis that I am about to propose all the more plausible.
Thus, what I was seeing was, quite probably, a tender moment between a male mallard and his racially diverse mate. I’m not sure if there is an offensive, duck-equivalent to a “jungle fever” reference that I could make at this point, so I guess I will just let that one slide by. I’m also not sure if the white duck was a female. Also, all evidence that I’ve seen of duck culture suggests that the concept of monogamy is quite foreign to them. In fact, they tend to be more into the gang-bang scene. Still, I assumed what I assumed based on my wanting to feel that it was a tender moment that could, hopefully, help me heal my numerous, duck-related psychological scars. A lofty hope, I’m sure, but I’m willing to put things behind me and move on if possible. And, based on the near total lack of duck molestings of my person over the last year or so, I figured it was time to take a step in the right direction.
Finding solace in this notion of moving on, I continued home, distracted by feelings of inner peace and tranquility. It was at about this point, around one hundred yards behind my house, that I saw some “mating” evidence that almost certainly disproved my earlier theory. A female mallard was rapidly swimming away from one of the Chucks (and two other male mallards, though they are mostly inconsequential to the story, except to prove that my other gang-bang misgivings are still relevant) that we have in our creek. A chuck, for those of you who have never seen them, are an unholy union of a chicken and a duck. They are vaguely shaped like a duck, though usually bigger, but they have facial and feather colorings similar to a chicken. They also walk like a chicken, bobbing their heads forward as they walk. Actually, their heads look more like vultures, but Vuck doesn’t have the same ring to it. At any rate, they are quite unattractive, but still part of the mating cycle out here, it seems.
The female, obviously in denial about her species’ mating habits, was resisting all advances as best she could in the creek, but soon found it necessary to take flight. She cruised up over the houses further down the path and flew out of my sight towards the north.
Still, I wasn’t going to let this little piece of crushing evidence dissuade me from my desire to make peace with the duck world. I strolled on down the path to where it meets up with
As I rounded the corner, a surprising thing happened. I was ballisticked (this isn’t a word, I know, or wasn’t until just then, but I can’t think of any other way of saying that something ballistic smashed into me without getting out my dictionary) by the chuck. The female, somehow or other, barely dodged me, but the chuck, probably caught up with the piece of tail that was only a few short feet in front of him, was not so lucky. As I turned the corner and made like a duck-proof wall, the chuck tried to swerve out of the way. Possibly, chucks fly like they walk, with their heads bobbing and swerving to compensate for any other body movement. Whatever the reason, as the chuck turned, his head and neck really did not, and he crashed right into my right arm.
What followed was an impressive display of metaphor come to life. In football, there is a term for a pass that is thrown without grace and/or skill. It is an unsteady, end-over-end wobbler that is referred to as a wounded duck. Until today, I had no visual reference to equate with this type of failed pass. Suffice it to say, however, that it is 100% accurate in the visual image that it should draw in the mind of its viewer. The struck chuck careened and veered off me in a most indelicate way until it splashed down into the creek where it lay motionless.
For my part, I’m happy to report that my heart must still be strong and my sphincter control is not lacking because I neither had a heart attack nor dropped a load in my drawers. I did, however, nearly pass out from the adrenaline rush. My body, thanks to my low-key lifestyle choices, is not the least bit used to surges of adrenaline, and this one was a doozy. Though my arm still hurts some.
I walked over to the path and peered in. The chuck was lying motionless about ten feet in, bobbing uncertainly. The female duck, unlike the affectionate and caring male duck I saw earlier, pining over the loss of his mate, immediately started coyly “avoiding” the other two male suitors that were not far behind. There’s probably a lesson there about life and gender differences in general, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.
I wanted to stick around a little longer and see if the chuck was dead or just grievously stunned, but I had to get back to the house to prepare for class, so I had to leave after only a few seconds of watching. I also wanted desperately to take a picture of my arm for posterity’s sake (since, for a change, there was actually a little proof of what I said happened). I did not, however, have any luck getting that picture as proof. Libby, it turns out, took our digital camera to work with her and didn’t bring it back. And, sadly, I do not bruise easily. I’m guessing there should be some sort of scientific equation wherein the force necessary to kill a duck is equal to or less than the force necessary for a blunt object to contuse the side of my right arm, but I’ve never been very good with the maths, so someone else will have to prove that theorem.
I had also briefly considered including a picture of some malformed or injured arm that I could substitute, but all of the ones I found on the internets were either too boring or too grotesque. Sadly, there is no middle ground on Google. There was a nice red mark on my arm for about an hour, though, and it still aches dully. If it does bruise some, I will be sure to share the picture. Hopefully that will do for everyone.
I’m just sad to know that, despite my efforts to make peace (and the fact that the score is finally even again), my enemy has escalated aggression, and now I’m actually taking battle damage. At least maybe now something interesting will happen to me somewhere other than while I’m walking or cycling around the park.
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