So there I am the liquor store, contemplating my incipient recreational alcoholism, when I hear one of the clerks say to the other, “That duck is so mean.”

The speaker is a young woman. Her coworker, a wild haired older gent, says, “What’s he do all day?”

DUCK-OWNER: Hangs around with his girlfriend! And honks whenever anybody drives up! I don’t need him to honk, I have dogs for that!

I briefly contemplated honking dogs.

WILDHAIRED OLDER GENTLEMEN: Well, he’s a duck.
DU: And he attacked someone the other day!
WHOG: *nods knowingly, as if duck attacks are on the rise*
DU: I think he’s mad at me because I put him in a harness.

DU: And the shoes. He’s mad I make him wear shoes.

At this point, I could no longer pretend to dither over spiced rum and approached the counter.

WHOG: Hard for a duck to tie shoes.
DU: They’re specially made!

DU: So his feet don’t get hurt when we go for walks! It’s a long gravel drive, I don’t want him to hurt his feet.
ME: ...
WHOG: Get a little wagon and pull him in it?
DU: I could do that.

ME: *unable to leave well enough alone* He honks? And attacks people? And he’s not a goose?
DU: Nope, he’s a duck. A mallard. I spoil him.
ME: ...my husband spoils his chickens. I understand.
WHOG: Does he put them on a harness?
ME: No, they ride on his shoulder.

ME: And takes photos.
DU: I take SO MANY pictures of Donald.
WHOG: *gazed silently heavenward*

And so, internet, just be aware that somewhere a mallard named Donald is wearing chicken booties and being walked on a harness, in between attacks on the populace.

That is all.