Ducks have talons. I know what you’re thinking: that’s a load of hooey. And here’s the thing: there was a time when I was right there with you. A time when I, too, lived in the beautiful and comfortingly false universe in which ducks are talon-less. Life was good then. It was that fantasy world in which I picked up a duck, and held it tenderly to my heart. And it was in that perfect moment that the frightened creature sliced through the veil of my delusions and also through the skin of my chest with it’s duck talons.
Ducks are sneaky and clever. Their appearance is no accident. Their soft downy feathers, rounded bill and waddling walk are all ruses to lure you into a false sense of security. They quack and squawk and eat out of your hands and you think, how utterly adorable!? How sweet and cute and harmless… and then they have you right where they want you. You move in for a snuggle and they move in for the kill! The moment you scoop one up, the talons are out, and you’re duck meat.
Were I single, I’d be flaunting my many duck battle wounds to potential mates in hopes of wooing them with my obvious physical prowess the way humans have done since the days of the first Lethal Weapon movie. However, most potential mates live in the make-believe world where ducks are not viscous, blood-thirsty birds of prey. And those people are not for me. I have seen too much.
As it is, I am mated, and she might have been more judgmental were it not for her own guinea hen injuries. And our knowledge of the dangers of bird holding has done little to hinder us. While the perils are great, the rewards are greater. There is nothing more satisfying, especially in this time of uncertainty and fear, than holding a living raptor to your breast and forcing it to love you.
Update: While Laurin’s guinea hen injuries are healed now, I have been permanently maimed by duck love.
Hahaha! This is incredible!