I once had a duck who thought he was a dog.
He didn’t start out as a dog. He probably started out as just a duck, though I’m not sure since our communication was limited. I will begin at the beginning. One Easter (I believe I was 11 at the time), I was sick at home with the flu. I had missed tryouts for the junior high cheerleading squad and I was quite miserable. A well-intentioned stepsister brought me an Easter gift in consolation. It was an adorable downy little duckling. Let me take he opportunity right here to say that a gift of a live animal is usually not the wisest surprise gift, though at least we lived in the country where there was some room for a duck. I can only imagine how my mother must have felt, but for some crazy reason, I got to keep the duckling. Being a precocious child, I ambitiously decided to name him Marcellus Demetrius. I called him just Demy most of the time, but my stepfather took to calling him Homer.
When he first entered our home, Demy was a delightful tiny little bundle of yellow fuzz. He would sit on my shoulder and peck at my ear. I couldn’t wear large dangling earrings, which was tough since it was 1985 and as far as earrings were concerned, the bigger the better. I also had to change my shirt several times a day. You can figure that one out. Anyway, I loved Demy and he was a constant companion. When he wasn’t on my shoulder or flapping at my heels, he was living in a laundry basket with a Trivial Pursuit board on top to keep him in. If out of his basket he would follow me around the house quacking all the way. If he was in his basket and I had the audacity to leave the room without him he would quack vigorously in protest. It was as if he thought he was human and I was his mother.
This all went along well for a time, but then I had to leave town for three weeks to visit my father. Demy was getting too big for the laundry basket and my parents insisted I should move him outside before I left. With the dogs. I should explain at this point that we had two dogs, Pogo (a small terrier and my own dog and favorite pet before Demy) and Ivan the Terrible (a chow). I couldn’t imagine my poor baby out there with dogs and foxes and who knows what else, but I had to give in and move him outside. It nearly broke my heart to leave him but I also looked forward to my three weeks in the big city. So I left.
When I returned, Demy had definitely become a Homer. He had grown even larger and hardly seemed to remember. He was way too big for my shoulder and wouldn’t come and sit on my lap. Instead of acting human, he had begun to act like a dog. It seemed that he had now decided that Ivan the Terrible was his mother and he followed him around all day. Ivan himself followed Pogo, so they were quite a trio. The dogs did not entirely accept Homer, but they knew better than to attack him. They seemed to sense that he was also a member of the family, albeit and irritating and feathery one. I had to give up on the close friendship I had with my duck and I was bitterly disappointed. I felt betrayed that he had so quickly forgotten me and that my parents had allowed it.
At this point, we moved into the center of town (a very small town) and life went on and Homer continued to follow the dogs and tried to join in their life as much as possible. He even acquired his own hanger-on; a mangy (possibly hungry) stray would trail after him as he followed Ivan, who in turn followed Pogo. I would walk to the post office a couple blocks away and a funny little train would follow: Pogo, Ivan, Homer, Stray. I must admit I rather enjoyed the attention we received from other townsfolk, who laughed uproariously to see our daily parade. We also got calls from the neighbors asking us to shut up Homer when he was howling (quacking) at the moon.
So that is the story of Homer the duck. I wish there were a happy ending, but I can’t lie to you. Homer met a tragic end. Every Saturday night in the summer, there was a rodeo held just half a mile down the road from our house. One Saturday night Homer was out chasing cars when destiny caught up with him and he went on to Duck Heaven. There was some discussion that perhaps Homer was actually a female duck crossing the street to nest rather than just chasing cars, but there was no evidence to support such an idea. All I knew was that my sweet little duck was gone.
Rest in peace, Homer.
note: the duck in the photo above is not Homer, but just some random stranger
