I have a weird, personal confession to make. I love ducks. Not duck figurines, not duck pictures, not weird stuffed ducks or people who like to dress as mascots and have sex — when I am depressed or sad, I get a loaf of bread and head to the park. Ducks in nature cheer me up. Their beaks, their quacks, and their fucking adorable little flat feet fill me with glee.
Which is why this story makes me so smiley.
Update: picked up on Boing Boing (thank you!), now on CNN, Digg, Tailrank, etc; also, two readers have emailed telling me to check out the book Fup, and one other pointed me toward the ‘infamous’ review for Ping on Amazon by John Fracisco — which explains *everything*, really.
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Update: got this great email from a reader,
“hi violet,
i give you this as a small payment for the favors you have done for me.
i work as a caretaker (cabana boy?) of a small farm. we have a tiny spring-fed pond that the three white geese that live here have claimed as their own. they are flightless waterfowl (loud but not aggressive), and stay all year ’round.
a number of years ago a pair of wild mallard ducks (mama and papa) began to use the pond during the day as a spa, as it were. then, a couple of years ago mama duck showed up one day with five tiny ducklings in tow. they all proceeded to spend the next three months or so running the place during the daylight hours.
it was one of the highlights of my day to watch. ms. duck was one tough mama, and took no shit from anyone; the geese, my rock solid little doggie, the stone cold killer cats or even me.
every day they swam (duckling flotillas), ate the goose food, and then vanished to wherever their secret ducky fortress of solitude took them.
when they left i was sad, but they keep coming back. they are tough mugs.”
