The Silliest Catch

So there we were--Wigglepuppy, Chewie, and I--enjoying a sun-dappled May afternoon, walking down by the duck pond. Now, my fearless hunter of a wiener dog is usually mildly interested in duckies, but this afternoon both she and her aloof sister nearly pulled us all into the water when they saw a wee little duckling hanging out just offshore. Before I knew what was happening I became a marionette-ist of death, the mastermind at the end of two strings holding furry little menaces who were, literally, licking the duckling. To the duckling's credit, he held his own. He held very still while they licked and I wrestled them away, then turned and said "Eep." I believe that's duck for "kiss my downy ass."

I was about to take Duck Bullies One and Two home, when I realized that while the duckling was getting a tongue bath, he'd gotten separated from his mom and sibs. We were responsible for the disintegration of a duck family. We orphaned a duckie. I'm pretty sure that's a cardinal sin [being that it involves a bird and all]. I decided I had to right this wrong and rescue the duckling. So, in a fit of genius, I looped Wiggles' and Chewie's leashes around a nearby tree and went to scoop up the duckling and return it to its brood (passel? murder? unkindness? pack?...what is a bunch of ducks called?).

It only took a minute and three rounds of "heeeeeere, duckie, duckie, duckie!" before I had a handful of duck. I stopped to giggle about having a bird in the hand and made a beeline for the Mama Duck. I felt like a hero one minute and a beast the next; I started to wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake. Would the duckling smell all person-y and be rejected by its family? Would I have to take the duckling home and raise him as a dog? Would he ask me one day why he looked different from the other kids and, upon hearing my sheepish confession, scream "You're not my real mom!" and leave me behind, shattered and duck-free? And what do ducks eat, anyway? I hope it's weight control oatmeal, because that's all I have in the house right now.

I was so wrapped up in my duck-fretting that I walked right past the duckling's anxious family. Ever heard a half-dozen ducks shriek before? It's totally creepy. So, I about-faced and set the duckling down in the water, murmured an apology to it and the mother and ran like Hell (ducks bite, you know, and Ma Duck looked none too pleased). Once I got to a safe distance I watched him paddle away with his family. I will be a legend in Duckland, I mused. A hero of the fowl-est ilk.

Feeling like a nature show bad-ass, I turned back to my puppies. Chewie--normally deadpan and bemused--was jumping up and down by the tree, pointing to the pond. Wiggles...where the f@#& was Wiggles?!?!

Naturally, she was swimming out to visit the duckies, still tethered to the sugar maple.

I tried to reel Wiggles back to shore--freaking retractable leashes--but I realized I was pulling on the wrong string. I'd managed to wrap Chewie around my ankles, but my wiener dog was still bobbing in the pond like a ridiculous little buoy (although she's a girl *rim shot*). I went all Kris Kristofferson in Blade 2--"You're not gonna die on me!!!"--and started tying the leashes in a big unintentional knot. Finally, I found the right string and began to slowly pull Wiggles ashore. All the while, my genius puppy was straining to visit the duckies. When I finally wrestled her out of the pond, she turned to me, slick and happy, and licked my nose.

"Call me Ishmael," I said.
"You're a self-important dork," Wiggles replied.

And then we all went home, duck-less and soaked. I have since mounted Wiggles on a wooden plaque above my mantle.