I'd lie and say that (D)wyatt took the pictures for this blog, but that would be wrong. Because they're not very good, and I'm sure he would have taken better shots. I mean, check that professional camera.
Before we get to the very exciting story about Baby Ducks and Bigfoot, Let me introduce you to Magic Bunny.
During our Denver visit, we did a little shopping. I picked this guy up and he was so soft I couldn't put him down. So they made me pay for him. And I gave him to (D)wyatt.
And now, to put him to sleep, all you have to do is rub his face with the bunny ears and he's out. If he feels like it, that is. He also spends a lot of time wrestling it. And chewing on it. It may not stay very soft.
|Sad that they make the kid sleep on the floor on a towel, isn't it?|
I want that rabbit back when Dwyatt gets tired of it. Clearly it has the magical sleep properties that I sorely need.
|I can't remember the last time I slept this well. I was probably his age.|
Also on our shopping trip, Mom bought Dad a dog. They have twelve legs at home, and when they are staying in Denver, they miss them. So now they have one that holds down the fort while they're home and keeps them company when they're visiting.
|He's made of recycled newspaper. Not pre-used by a real dog, of course.|
So I FINALLY got to name something Dwayne! Dwayne the Dog. I'm being rather insistent about this.
Now without segue, we'll roll right on into our baby duck experience. Mom and Natalie and (D)wyatt and I went for a walk on Monday. We were looking for a bathroom for me (I told you, didn't I?) when we came across this:
We chased them through yards, out from under parked cars, behind bushes, and all over the side street when a woman drove by and stopped to help. Then another woman stopped - and get this - she was getting her PhD in bird behavior. No, I'm serious! It was most fortuitous.
And right about then was when one stray duckling got all emo and suicidal on us and ran out onto the four-lane busy street, peeping something about sacrificing himself to martyrdom for the Mallard Revolution.
Evidently, I don't have the sense God gave geese (or ducks) and didn't even look both ways before hauling ass after him. I heard my mother yell something like "Andrea, please don't get yourself killed!", but I couldn't hear her very well since she was running around in some stranger's front bushes. I chased that little fuzzy bastard around in the middle of the street in traffic and stopped cars just like a bona fide Officer of the Law. That might have been fun, but I still hadn't caught that damned duck.
Some people walking a dog stopped to watch the show. I'm sure the dog was thinking she could do a much better job. I finally nailed the little guy (or girl - frankly, I didn't ask) in front of a stopped car. The dog walkers cheered. The drivers were glad to see me get the hell out of their way. My mother and Natalie were relieved I hadn't gotten myself flattened like Wile E. Coyote. (D)wyatt slept through the whole thing.
|"I am not impressed by your feeble attempt at heroics, Aunt Andie. You bore me."|
The duck didn't much like being held. Kept flipping his little webbed feet and peeping his head off. I don't blame him. I know they were all scared to death. By the time I got out of the street, Mom and the other two women had managed to gather up most of the rest of them and put them in someone's purse. (Not mine. I don't own one. I gave all my stuff to my mom to carry in her purse.) I added my little guy and then I tended to the asphyxiation-induced coronary I was having. (Did y'all know there's no air in Denver?)
So the PhD woman took them off to the bird sanctuary where they'll be fed and cared for. And hopefully given PTSD therapy. And Natalie and Mom took me to the corner grocery where I could use their rest room and buy a bottle of oxygen and borrow their defribrillator. Clearly, I survived.
But wait! That's not all! I saved the very best for last!
While we were walking, guess whose house I found?
By the looks of it, I had just missed him. You can tell he'd been out mowing his lawn. Probably he was in the back grabbing the leaf blower. It's OK, though. I'll be back, and now I know where he lives. Come to think of it, I probably should have knocked on the door and asked to use his bathroom.
I got home Tuesday evening and what with the duck drama and the heart attack and being overwhelmed by the close proximity of Sasquatch, I was pretty beat. I hit the bed by about 9:00. Eastern Day Time.
And someone besides Pootie was awfully glad I was home.
Happy (late) Mother's Day to me.