Crack, crack!

One Easter, when Mark, David and I were little, my Grandpa gave us each a duckling. They were fuzzy and yellow and cute as the dickens as they skittered about our yard on Bishop Place. I suspect that Grandpa gave them to us more for his own enjoyment as he watched them from his house across the alley. They were the plain white variety and therefore safe from any threat of his 12 gauge.

As they grew, they became sort of a pain in the ass. They were noisy. They would molt. Our yard wasn’t fenced so they would follow my Mom down the block to the store. They would poop in our wading pool. They were awful.

One day, we came home to find the ducks staggering wackily around the yard. “Quaaack, quooook, quuuuzhk!” they squawked. Their necks were wobbling and one  had one wing dragging on the ground. 

“What the..?” Mom said and ran across the alley to get Grandpa, the duck expert.

They came running back and Grandpa took a gander at them. Then he burst into a great big belly laugh. “What’s going on?” Mom asked. Grandpa pointed at our garden at the mound of poppy stems—stems that were completely devoid of any blossoms...or opium seeds.

“Your ducks are as drunker than hoot owls!” he guffawed.

Those quack whores.