Why a duck?
My erstwhile friend has spent his life pursuing a variety of vocations, each of which has tragically ended at best with his breaking even, often resulting in his breaking wind in his ire, and sometimes bringing him close to bankruptcy.
His name is Grunt. He tells a vague story about his mother taking longer than usual to recover from childbirth as an explanation for it.
Grunt's latest foray was a rather lucrative looking attempt to raise ducks. Many restaurants would offer duck on their menus if it could be obtained cheaply enough, and Grunt seemed on his way to finally making a decent living.
He called me the other day, rather, um, disgruntled. "Okay," I sighed. "What was it this time?"
"You never know what you'll learn, Frankie" he said (Grunt has known me for a very long time, and never thought to honor my transition to adulthood by giving up using my childhood nickname). "You watch nature shows, you see them in zoos and parks, and they seem like simple, relaxed creatures..." His voice trailed off, and I worried a bit about him. He's a gentle soul, really.
"So, are you going to leave me guessing?"
"Well," he began, "it started out very well. I did all my homework, checked with federal and state regulations, filled out all the forms and paid all the licensing fees. I found a reputable supplier of ducklings, did a lot of early promotion with local restaurants and small grocery stores, found a couple of butchers willing to be my regular supply line to customers... I did everything in the right order except learn something basic about ducks."
I was confused. "What's there to know about ducks that is so obscure?"
"Well, for one thing, they have a dominance order, just like chickens or geese."
"That sounds reasonable," I said.
"But," his voice began to sound strained, "they don't tell you that ducks can have personality conflicts as well. Maybe I got too many all at once, or maybe because they were all the same age, or just that there was no existing ducking order for them, but from almost the first day they did nothing but squawk at each other and chase each other around the pen. They didn't put on weight hardly at all, and at one point they got so rowdy my closest neighbors a mile away started to call and complain.
"I got so frustrated, I took my gun and shot them all, right there in the pen. I can't even send them to butchers now."
I thought for a moment. I started to speak my next thought, but stopped again. Finally, I gave in to the inevitable.
"So," I said to Grunt, "you did everything in the right order, but in the end all the ducks you lined up got in a row and you shot them."
"Yeah," he half-sobbed. "That's why I called you, Frankie. You always seem to find a way to summarize things for me. Anyway, I've got a few gallons of duck soup in the freezer. Come over soon for your share."
"I will, Grunt."
His name is Grunt. He tells a vague story about his mother taking longer than usual to recover from childbirth as an explanation for it.
Grunt's latest foray was a rather lucrative looking attempt to raise ducks. Many restaurants would offer duck on their menus if it could be obtained cheaply enough, and Grunt seemed on his way to finally making a decent living.
He called me the other day, rather, um, disgruntled. "Okay," I sighed. "What was it this time?"
"You never know what you'll learn, Frankie" he said (Grunt has known me for a very long time, and never thought to honor my transition to adulthood by giving up using my childhood nickname). "You watch nature shows, you see them in zoos and parks, and they seem like simple, relaxed creatures..." His voice trailed off, and I worried a bit about him. He's a gentle soul, really.
"So, are you going to leave me guessing?"
"Well," he began, "it started out very well. I did all my homework, checked with federal and state regulations, filled out all the forms and paid all the licensing fees. I found a reputable supplier of ducklings, did a lot of early promotion with local restaurants and small grocery stores, found a couple of butchers willing to be my regular supply line to customers... I did everything in the right order except learn something basic about ducks."
I was confused. "What's there to know about ducks that is so obscure?"
"Well, for one thing, they have a dominance order, just like chickens or geese."
"That sounds reasonable," I said.
"But," his voice began to sound strained, "they don't tell you that ducks can have personality conflicts as well. Maybe I got too many all at once, or maybe because they were all the same age, or just that there was no existing ducking order for them, but from almost the first day they did nothing but squawk at each other and chase each other around the pen. They didn't put on weight hardly at all, and at one point they got so rowdy my closest neighbors a mile away started to call and complain.
"I got so frustrated, I took my gun and shot them all, right there in the pen. I can't even send them to butchers now."
I thought for a moment. I started to speak my next thought, but stopped again. Finally, I gave in to the inevitable.
"So," I said to Grunt, "you did everything in the right order, but in the end all the ducks you lined up got in a row and you shot them."
"Yeah," he half-sobbed. "That's why I called you, Frankie. You always seem to find a way to summarize things for me. Anyway, I've got a few gallons of duck soup in the freezer. Come over soon for your share."
"I will, Grunt."