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| Henry Poole |
“There’s
a new duck in the chicken coop. Check it out.”
Our
hoard of grandchildren thundered past me to “see” the new duck.
“How
did that happen?” My husband asked.
“The
grandchildren? Or the duck?”
He
sighed. “The duck.”
“Honestly,
I’m not sure. Seems Doris’ daughter, Margo who sells Harleys, met a lady at a
biker rally whose daughter was raising a duck in her back yard but now she and
her college roommates are moving to a new apartment where ducks are not allowed
and Margo remembered that we wanted ducks, not knowing that we had already
gotten ducks from the Tractor Supply Company and raised them in a metal
bucket.”
“Hmmmmm.”
“Exactly.
The two college roommates brought Henry Poole, the duck, in a leopard print cat
carrier—drunk. The roommates not the duck.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,
so they were driving around Saint Cloud drunk with a duck.”
“How
does this stuff happen to you?”
“Rumors
and scuttlebutt.” I sighed. “The best part is when the college
roommates—Tiffany or Brittany, or Jenny, or some such—informed me that Henry
Poole was used to eating people food. I let them know that he’d be eating sad
old duck food from now on.”
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| Our "state of the art" duck pen. |
“How
did that go over?”
“Fine.
It was when Charles Dickens, our duck, tried to murder Henry Poole that they
seemed a bit shocked by the rules of the chicken coop and farm life in
general.”
He
shook his head and looked resigned. “Did Charles Dickens kill Henry Poole yet?”
“Not
yet, but the jury is still out. I’m keeping everybody separated until they
sober up—the ducks, not the roommates. The good news is that Miss Havisham,
Charles Dickens’ wife, has started laying eggs.”
“Nice.
Let’s celebrate. I’ll make omelets.”
“You’re
on,” I said.
And
that’s where omelets come from children, not the grocery store and not giant
refrigerated trucks. Omelets come from eggs. Eggs laid by Miss Havisham. Eggs
that Charles Dickens the Drake will defend to the death, even if he has to
drown Henry Poole in the cast iron bathtub in the duck pen. It’s a jungle out
there in the chicken coop of life. Stay frosty. Stay focused.
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| Charles Dickens and Miss Havisham |
Linda
(Lucky Ducky) Zern
