People say you can get used to anything. Habits are habits, and repetition makes the most extraordinary events eventually seem commonplace. Back when Binky ran our lives, I learned not to bat an eye whenever I stumbled into our dining room while Linda was putting the bunny to bed. For most rabbit owners, making sure the pet has fresh food and water is sufficient. But Linda went the extra mile by treating Binky to a musical recital and me to the spectacle of my wife on hands and knees in the dining room with her head thrust through the door of the bunny’s cage while singing a lullaby she had composed.
’Cause he’s the bunny,
The very best bunny,
He’s the bunny for
You and me.
As she warbled the song, whose soaring melody suggested a hymn, Linda would pet Binky on the head while attempting to keep him from kicking away the pink hand towel she had draped across his back. One or two refrains of “The Very Best Bunny” typically provided all the happiness Binky could handle. Any more and he might bolt for the open door.
Pocket parrot Ollie’s bedtime ritual was even more remarkable. Linda would hide Ollie inside a knitted pink tam-o’-shanter she called his “night-night hat.” Clutching one end of the tam, she would swing it back and forth in the manner of a pendulum while scat singing a medley of American standards that usually included “Camptown Races” and “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” Eager to see the performance as well as hear it, Ollie would attempt to crawl out of the tam. Once his head popped into view, Linda would snug the hat around his neck and flip him upside down in her lap. Instead of responding with his usual bad temper, he greeted this with excited chirps whose intensity increased as Linda stroked his head with a finger, carefully avoiding his snapping beak.
Neither wife nor parrot was shy about conducting this ritual in front of awestruck company. Linda once even tried instructing our pet-sitter Rhonda in the finer points of the complex ceremony, but our helper shook her head at the idea of mastering the “night-night hat” without months of study.
“How did you ever think this up?” asked a bewildered Rhonda. “How did he get in the hat in the first place?”
Like an ancient traditional dance whose movements have lost their meaning over the centuries, the “night-night hat” has origins that are cloaked in mystery. All we know for certain is that in the not-so-distant past, when Ollie squawked extensively while Linda worked in the kitchen, she occasionally popped him into the pocket of her apron, both quieting the bird and forcing him to live up to the epithet of pocket parrot. Depositing him inside the tam presumably evolved from there, but behavioral anthropologists disagree on the precise mechanism of the transition.
Every three months I endured a less obscure ritual of my own. In order to keep from plunging into the pocket of neurosis that could open up beneath my feet, anywhere and at any time—such as in the living room after witnessing Ollie’s bedtime preparations—I was obliged to visit my psychiatrist, Dr. Glaser, for quarterly updates of my Zoloft prescription. Although the Zoloft had successfully lowered my general feeling of unease, major events, such as any kind of deadline at work or an unintended slight delivered by a stranger, could still smite me with depression and anxiety, especially when the complexity of caring for two incompatible cats, two incompatible rabbits, two naughty parrots, three parakeets, a canary, a dove, five ducks, and a pair of geese wore me out. Since each fifteen-minute session with Dr. Glaser boiled down to his writing out my scrip while I pondered his Johnny Castaway screen saver, a visit every six months would have sufficed. But the office manager insisted that their computer was incapable of scheduling appointments at greater than three-month intervals. I wasn’t sure if this meant that I enjoyed better mental health than the practice’s other patients, exercised better sales resistance, or if all of us had fallen prey to the same bogus scheduling excuse.
A late-winter meeting with Dr. Glaser that would later turn out to be my last began like every other visit. I wandered around a waiting room whose extravagant spaciousness must have discouraged the treatment of agoraphobics. The problem wasn’t finding a place to sit, it was choosing between numerous furniture groupings while wondering if concealed observers were evaluating my choice. Imagine a yawning room the size of an aircraft hanger and stock it with earth-toned couches, loveseats, overstuffed chairs, conference chairs, library tables, coffee tables, end tables, occasional tables, vegetables, table lamps, floor lamps, and accent lighting to form a dozen separate enclaves. Block the windows with opaque curtains, then sprinkle the room with a sparse population of patients pretending we just happened to be in the neighborhood and stopped by to peruse the magazines.
Dr. Glaser drifted in through a door on the distant horizon as I was absorbing an article in Fitness magazine on the ten best ways to sculpt my lower body, a subject near and dear to my heart. He wore a bronze-colored suit with a metallic sheen that complemented his therapeutic approach. His arms hung heavily at his sides, inviting me to forego shaking his hand as he greeted me with a brief smile and a warm over-the-forehead stare. Once I had followed him into his nondescript office and seated myself on the inevitable leather couch, he asked me the usual opening question, “Are you still taking the Zoloft?” His inflection suggested that Zoloft was my friend.
“Yes, I am,” I answered confidently. Meanwhile, Johnny Castaway had just gotten bonked on the head by a coconut that had dropped from the sole tree on his island, rendering him unconscious during the passage of a cruise ship that might have rescued him.
“Is the Zoloft still effective?”
“Yes.”
“Are you experiencing any anxiety or depression while taking the Zoloft?”
“Yes, a little of each. But nothing too debilitating.” I did not elaborate upon the pressures of maintaining and losing pets, nor did I mention the “night-night hat,” fearing he might enter the information in his database. I hated the thought of one day chancing upon an article in Psychology Today about psychiatric patient “Robert,” who suffered dangerous delusions about headgear-wearing birds.
“Would you like to increase the dosage of your Zoloft?” he asked with weary encouragement.
“Shall I write you a prescription for the same dosage of Zoloft that you are currently taking?”
I nodded. I entertained a thought. Any thought was entertaining under the circumstances. “That’s fine. But since we have a couple of minutes, I was wondering if I could ask you a question. About dreams,” I added, expecting a light bulb to flash behind his eyes. Surely dreams were the filet mignon of a psychiatrist’s sustenance, though Dr. Glaser’s manner remained politely disinterested.
“I’ll try to answer your question about dreams.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand. Dreams can conceivably take a person anywhere. Anything is possible in dreams. I could visit different planets as easily as walking out a door. But all of the settings in my dreams are, well, incredibly ordinary. They take place at work, or in my parent’s house, or garage, or in apartments I used to live in, or in my grandmother’s old house. The settings repeat so relentlessly, I could probably list them on half a sheet of paper and still have enough space left over to write a grocery list. I’m just wondering if you might have any ideas why this might be so. The events in my dreams are often complicated, but the settings never are.”
Dr. Glaser thought a moment, then surprised me with his answer. “Would you describe yourself as a person who values consistency in your life?” I had to agree that I would. “Then perhaps the regularity of setting is a choice that you have imposed on your dreams, indicating that you function best with routines and habits and don’t necessarily adapt well to change.”
His words hit me with a powerful insight about pet ownership. Rather than blaming our animals for adding complexity to my life, perhaps I should thank them for simplifying it. After all, they helped reduce the potentially unlimited possibilities of existence to a series of tedious and predictable daily routines. Nothing could suit the temperament of a timid man better. Instead of laying ambitious plans for the future or even building up a healthy clientele for my freelance writing business, I could pack each day to the brim directing ducks in and out of their pens, separating fighting rabbits, and keeping parrot-seed dishes filled. The notion that something other than folly might lie behind my acquisition of nearly countless pets brought me a tingle of joy. I overflowed with gratitude toward Dr. Glaser.
“Thank you for your help,” I told him when my fifteen minutes had expired. I felt a little guilty for having underestimated his psychological expertise simply because his couch-side manner wasn’t up to snuff. After he had walked me to the reception area, I turned to him and said, “See you in three months.”
“Good-bye,” he replied, extending his right hand. At first I thought he wanted me to shake it, but he passed me a sealed envelope, spun around, and retreated down the corridor. Out in my car, with the heater blowing and snow covering my windshield, I read a letter informing me that Dr. Glaser was leaving his practice at Psychiatric Professionals to accept a new position as director of a state mental health facility for the criminally insane in southern Indiana. The announcement concluded with the uplifting statement, “I have benefited from my association with each of you and assure you that your records will be transferred to another psychiatric-care physician in time for your next appointment.” Shaken by this unexpected intimacy, I wiped away a tear as I guided my car through the gleaming office park. Every faux marble façade, each ramrod-straight, steel-jacket light pole reminded me that I had lost a consummate mental health professional who had taught me the meaning of neurosis.
IF ANYONE BESIDE myself flourished in an environment where habits and routines were deeply ingrained, it was Stanley Sue. Far from remaining the shrinking violet of her first years with us, though, Stanley Sue expanded the range of her introverted nature by exploring the kitchen drawers on the opposite side of the room. If I foolishly neglected to drape a tablecloth over the drawer handles, Stanley took the opportunity to climb from one drawer to the next until, from her perch on the hardware summit, she somehow managed to pry open the topmost drawer. Canning-jar rims, measuring spoons, and plastic cat food lids ended up imprinted with beak marks and strewn across the linoleum. On one outing she nibbled the wooden handle of one of Linda’s favorite knives down to the shank.
When Stanley Sue wasn’t scaling drawer handles, she stalked the tops of the bunny cages, hoping for a clear shot at pecking Bertie or Rollo through the bars. But the dining room woodwork was more at risk than the rabbits. Her love of chewing compelled me to slide a knee-high plywood board between the backs of the bunny cages and the picture window, hoping it would keep her from reaching the windowsill.
But Stanley’s routine destruction of household objects wasn’t so easily derailed. Seated on the edge of the board, she would gnaw a section of plywood until she had eaten away an access to the presumably sweeter material of the sill. Back before compact discs had completely phased out LPs, I regularly received albums in the mail to review for my magazine column. Folding their cardboard mailers into various shapes, I wedged them between the cages and plywood board and between the plywood board and the window as a further distraction from her intractable beavering of the woodwork. These also became grist for the mill. If we waited too long to clean up after her, I might fill two kitchen trashbags with Stanley-generated wood shavings and shredded cardboard that she had deposited in a small space between Bertie’s cage and a well-chewed cabinet that held a radio with a dangerously chewed cord.
Despite her bad habits, Stanley Sue’s intelligence and good nature kept me from staying angry with her for long. In the morning she would dog my feet in the kitchen, scuttling across the linoleum as I retrieved dry kibbles from the cupboard and canned cat food from the fridge to dump into dishes on the countertop. Fearing I was bent on returning her to her cage, she would balk if I attempted to pick her up. As long as I assured her I simply wanted to take her “upstairs to see kitty,” she eagerly hopped onto my hand and rode along. For a few weeks she even seemed poised to learn to “poop” on cue if I said that magic word while holding her above Penny’s litter box, but my timing was frequently as poor as hers, and I gave up on it.
She shocked me one Sunday at breakfast when I told her, “Better get on top of your cage if you want your juice.” She trotted across the floor, clambered up her cage, and voiced the excited chuck note that meant she expected a treat. On a whim I once corrected her, “Not on your cage, in your cage.” She paused inches from the cage top, turned around, and ducked inside. I soon realized that she understood far more than she preferred to let on, obeying most commands only if they resulted in a reward or avoided an unwanted confrontation.
Stanley Sue formed mental connections that seemed to illustrate she was capable of abstract thought. My first inkling of this came when she mocked me with a kissing sound when I lavished praise on another pet. She demonstrated a similar leap in logic after mastering an obnoxiously accurate imitation of our squeaky ovenbroiler door and erupting with the sound as soon as Linda’s fingers touched the broiler-door handle. Once she lost interest in this stunt, she started making the same squeak when we opened the door to the basement. Her linkage of two completely different-looking but functionally similar objects implied that she understood the concept of a door.
Along with the blossoming of Stanley Sue’s personality came a deepening bond between us. During dinner, once I had stopped feeding her long enough to try to eat from my own plate, she often left her cage top to climb the horizontal crosspieces of my chair legs and park herself under my seat. Reaching down to tweak her beak, I no longer feared a bite, at least no more often than the owner of an exuberant cat would fear a nip. If she didn’t want to be touched, she turned her head away. If I insisted on picking her up when she was adamantly opposed to it, on rare occasions she would strike me with her beak rather than bite. The solution was respecting her dignity and asking her to do on her own what she would not do with my help. So, if she was happily employed reaching through the bars of Rollo’s cage struggling to overturn his water dish, and profoundly resented stepping onto my hand to go back to her cage, I didn’t press the matter. Instead I would tell her, “If you won’t step up, you have to go into your cage on your own,” and bribe her with juice if she still resisted. She would invariably comply. While my approach flew in the face of parrot behavioralists who stress that the “step up” command must be obeyed at all times, the end result was what mattered to me.
Stanley Sue’s affection toward me was tempered by her jealousy of other birds. Even if she was occupied with an ambitious woodwork-improvement project, I only had to float a few sweet syllables toward Howard the ring-necked dove to drive her to a fast march across the floor, a climb up the side of her cage, and Quasimodo-like activity with her bell. But Stanley Sue’s eyes turned greenest whenever I paid attention to Ollie, who enjoyed chirping, whistling, and chattering in response to a happy tone of voice. He especially savored the cryptic phrase, “Can you say?” which was a holdover from my early attempts to teach him to talk. “Can you say, ‘Pretty boy’?” I would ask him, back in the days before our menagerie exploded. “Can you say, ‘I’m a bitey little bird’?” While few English words ever entered his vocabulary, asking him, “Can you say?” always elicited delighted peals, which infuriated Stanley Sue, who would squawk and flap her wings as if she were going to swoop down upon the interloper. She only acted out her jealousy if I was sitting on a chair scratching her head as Linda concluded the ritual of the “night-night hat” by presenting Ollie to me with the request, “Say goodnight to Poppy.” If my goodnight lasted longer than a couple of clipped words, Stanley Sue would pinch my leg with her beak.
We never got used to Ollie’s squawking fits. Repetition made them harder rather than easier to bear. “I am not going to have you ruin every single meal,” Linda would fume, hopping up from her chair to spoon corn or peas into his dish. He’d coo and eat contentedly as she stood over him.
“If you’re not good, you’re going to finish your dinner in the bathroom,” I’d threaten when the squawking started again. A green bean or bit of flavored gelatin usually bought us a few moments of peace.
Fortunately, his worst tirades were confined to mealtime. The din of canary songs, dove hoots, parrot whistles, and parakeet chirps throughout the day distracted him from constantly screaming for attention. The parakeets had succeeded in wearing down his bad attitude by using the top of his cage as a gossiping spot and then effortlessly scattering whenever he approached. He grew especially tolerant of Rossy, who spurned the affections of lovestruck Reggie in favor of perching on Ollie’s cage and admiring him just out of beak-striking range.
If I placed Ollie on my shoulder, Rossy and Reggie would join him instantly. A few moments later the shy Sophie would land behind my neck—along with Elliott, the brown and white canary we had bought after Chester’s unexpected death the same day we had lost Peggy to the raccoon. A competitive Howard would top the others by settling on my head, dashing my hopes of ever finding employment as a scarecrow.
HOWARD CONTINUED COURTING the parakeets with such misplaced ardor that when the opportunity arose to take in two homeless female doves, we decided to provide him with a harem of his own species. The snowy white turtledoves came to us as Jacob Lestermeyer’s feud with his pharisee neighbor boiled over to include the Allegan County sheriff’s department, the humane society, and a circuit-court judge. It started with the pharisee’s indignant phone call to the sheriff’s department when a gang of Lestermeyer’s chickens scratched up his meticulously manicured backyard in search of an insect meal, then whitewashed his pristine brick patio for dessert. By the time the animal control officers arrived, a trio of uncontrollable goats was munching on the pharisee’s shrubbery—possibly including a one-eared, scarf-wearing ringleader, but I’m speculating here.
“This kind of thing goes on day after day,” the pharisee complained to the uniformed animal specialists, possibly with a good deal of arm-waving. (More speculation here.) “Somebody had better take a good long look at what’s going on next door,” the pharisee demanded, as he pointed toward the petting zoo/butcher shop.
The sheriff’s department did take a look at it, and with the assistance of the humane society, determined that Lestermeyer’s animals suffered from overcrowding and unsanitary conditions. We had noticed nothing of the kind when we visited his farm the previous year, but that may speak more to the way Linda and I lived than to Allegan County health standards. A judge gave Lestermeyer exactly thirty days to pare down his population of ducks, geese, chickens, pheasants, turkeys, goats, cows, ponies, horses, guinea fowl, donkeys, doves, and mythological visions to exactly one hundred edible and inedible residents.
True to his irascible nature, Jacob defied the court order up until a hair’s breadth of the deadline. Linda’s friend LuAnne was donating time and money to a farm that took in unwanted and abused animals, and she managed to convince Lestermeyer to part with the prescribed number of beasts, to be housed at the farm sanctuary. Her fear was that if the county shut him down entirely, none of the critters might find proper homes. The same man who had refused my extra two dollars and Linda’s donation for feed insisted that LuAnne pay him three hundred dollars for the animals she was helping to relocate. He refused to part with larger livestock that might fetch earnings as steaks and cutlets, which at least made LuAnne’s transportation problems easier. Two doves with insufficient meat on their bones thus found their way to our dining room. Howard’s bliss was sure to follow. Or so we assumed.
We had no doubt that the new doves were females. They both proved their fecundity within days by laying lovely white eggs in the pot of a hanging Boston fern and depositing others at random in the bottom of their cage. The newcomers were a bachelor dove’s dream come true. In contrast to Howard’s raucous hoots, the girls cooed a softer, seductive song that all but demanded our horny ringneck come hither. They flaunted their beauty in every region of the room, spreading their wings on a scalloped chair back or strolling a placemat on the table, ostensibly in search of crumbs but in actuality trolling for a husband. What was poor Howard to do but submit to their womanly wiles?
“What the heck?” I asked Linda. “You’d think he’d be going crazy chasing them.”
Instead of wooing the heavenly sisters, Howard continued making his normal rounds courting and harassing the parakeets and indulging in episodes of beak-twiddling passion with Reggie. The only interaction among our fawn-colored clown and the pale newcomers came whenever one of the sisters usurped his favorite perching place on top of the parakeets’ cage. Rather than swoop down on the interloper with a masculine flourish that could be interpreted as a prelude to conquest, Howard would hop clumsily to the parakeets’ cage top, driving off the female with ungentlemanly pecks.
If Linda and I had fallen in love with the doves, we would have given this budding romance the years it needed to unfold. A couple of factors hardened our hearts against the matchmaking. Pigeons, and to a lesser extent doves, have the deserved reputation as besmirchers of statues, park benches, vinyl siding, and windows. Howard was hygienic compared to his outdoor siblings, leaving discreet and easily-picked-up calling cards behind him. Without sinking to the level of giving details that might disturb a yogurt-eating reader, it must be said that the newcomers’ droppings were not only plentiful, but they also possessed a sloppy quality that required an endless supply of paper towels. The girls were the miniature equivalents of geese. Added to this was their increasing pugnacity toward our smaller birds. Before long we decided that they should seek residence elsewhere, with Linda acting as their real estate agent.
AFTER LINDA HAD placed the classified ad “two doves free to a good home” in the local weekly shopping newspaper, I braced myself for the same onslaught of erroneous calls that had followed our request for a handyman. To my surprise, nobody phoned to ask about diving boards, Dove ice-cream bars, or the benefits our business offered. A dove fancier willing to drive the fifty miles from Hastings came to our rescue instead. Jonathan turned out to be a breeder who raised and hand-tamed a number of his birds for professional magicians to use in their acts.
“Magicians treat their doves very well,” he assured us. Nevertheless, he promised not to sell the sisters but to introduce them to gallant males eager to encourage the laying of fertile eggs. Our pair was already too old to make good show birds, anyway, he explained.
“You have to start working with them almost as soon as they hatch if you want to win their trust,” he told us.
“Just like call duck ducklings,” I muttered.
Jonathan carried himself with a vibrant confidence that confirmed his claim to be an amateur magician himself. I could imagine his dark brown hair combed and styled to complement a tuxedo with sequined lapels, while his cleanly shaved upper lip cried out for the requisite neatly trimmed mustache. It all fit perfectly, and for all I knew, a cape packed with colored-silk handkerchiefs, tricky decks of cards, and collapsible bouquets huddled mysteriously in the back of his station wagon.
“Who’s this guy?” he asked, as he gravitated toward Howard’s cage. “You’re not thinking of getting rid of him, are you?”
“Always thinking,” I told him. Linda shot me a look. “But, no, we certainly couldn’t deprive ourselves of Howard.”
“He’s a very handsome male.”
“How can you tell that he’s a he?” Linda wondered. “Sometimes he’s not even sure what he is,” and she went on to relate the embarrassing tale of Howard’s sexual exploits.
Jonathan explained that male doves possess an apparently wider iris than the females. He held one of the girls close to Howard’s cage as proof. Try as I might, I couldn’t distinguish any relative difference between the colored portions of their eyes, and no other dove authority has subsequently backed up Jonathan’s method for identifying dove gender—which might actually have relied upon an inter-species mind-reading stunt. Leaving us his phone number, the magician’s breeder put the pair of females in a cardboard carrier, stepped into his car, and disappeared in a puff of smoke that indicated he needed exhaust-system work.
I HAD BARELY gotten used to the two doves, when suddenly they were gone. And that loss was negated by our gain of a roughneck Muscovy duck. The day that Linda brought Hector home began pretty much like any other Sunday. After breakfast, I replenished the drinking water, pool water, and scratch feed for the geese and female ducks, let them forage in the yard awhile, then carbon-copied with the male Khaki Campbells. Agnes was rolling around on the cement back deck, so I petted her while Liza and Hailey hogged the pool and the three girl ducks looked on enviously. By the time I had wrapped up my outdoor chores, Linda was finishing braiding her hair in preparation for church in nearby Ionia. The church boasted a full sixteen members, including the pastor’s family.
“’Bye, sweetie, I’m leaving now,” she told me, planting a kiss on my lips and slinging her purse over her shoulder. Less than thirty seconds later, she trotted back into the house to retrieve her back cushion. “’Bye, sweetie, I’m going,” she called, as she darted out the door. I was still struggling to separate the bulky Grand Rapids Press Sunday newspaper advertising supplements from their thin news and editorial wrappers when she returned to hurriedly heat up her therapeutic gelatin pack in the microwave. Years of pushing a vacuum cleaner, not to mention other strenuous work throughout her life, had left Linda with a pain in her lower back that marriage to me occasionally sent southward but did nothing to alleviate.
“’Bye, I’m late,” she announced.
“See you in ten seconds,” I said.
“No you won’t.” She laughed as she darted outside. Edging forward on the couch, I watched as she pulled her car toward the road, jerked it to a halt inches before its wheels hit the shoulder, flung herself out the car door and to her feet, and made a fresh assault on the house. Punctuating each door-slamming departure and reentry was a pair of baseball-size jingle bells that Linda had tied to the doorknob a couple of Christmases ago and decided to keep in place as an all-season annoyance. The thud of wood against the hoarse rattle of metal had jolted me from many a nap with nightmarish visions of plummeting headlong into a medieval forge.
Jingle! “Forgot my church collection money,” she explained, as I pondered a perplexing installment of The Family Circus comic strip. “Bye-bye.” Jingle!
Jingle! “I need my Bible.” She grabbed it from a wicker basket perched on one of my hi-fi speakers, almost sending the basket and ten pounds of clutter crashing to the floor. “See you.” Jingle!
Jingle! “Have you seen Grapey?”
“I don’t keep track of your hats.”
The errant stocking cap was exactly where it belonged, on the top tier of the coat rack next to the “night-night hat.”
“That everything?” I asked.
“Drink of water.” She thundered into the bathroom and out again. “’Bye!” Jingle!
Jingle! “Don’t forget, I’m going to try to talk that farmer into giving us that duck.”
“Jeez.” Jingle!
I had forgotten all about the duck. Ceasing to purchase new animals no longer saved us from acquiring new animals. Without warning, we had slid across an unmarked border into the territory of animal rescuers. It was a realm that demanded a high state of alertness lest we join a group that thought nothing of devoting every waking moment, dollar of income, and square inch of property to caring for the unstoppable tide of unwanted pets. As pet owners, we were way over the edge of excess with our bird, cat, and rabbit menagerie. I couldn’t see myself joining the ranks of animal rescuers without descending into a bottomless hell of crabbiness. But I did find myself agreeing to take in animals, especially when their lot in life was as pitiful as Hector’s.
The drive from Lowell to Ionia along M-21 always provided a wealth of interesting sights. My favorite was an ancient Standard Oil gas-station sign embedded in the bank, or perhaps the Dumpster built to resemble a miniature house. Linda’s favorite had been a complex of pens containing tame white-tail deer near the village of Saranac, until the owner blocked her view with a stockade fence to protect them from trigger-happy, beer-besotted hunters. She also enjoyed a barnyard where white Charolais cattle ate constantly from their trough. One Sunday, as she drove to church, she noticed a tiny enclosure on the Charolais property with a large bird inside. On her way home, a closer look revealed a dirty white Muscovy duck confined to a cage so small he didn’t have room to flap his wings. Never one to shy away from promoting animal welfare—especially when it involved the chance to knock on a total stranger’s door and engage in conversation—Linda decided to ask the farmer to sell her the duck.
I met Linda in our driveway after church. Peering through her car window, I noticed that the animal carrier had migrated from her trunk to the backseat, but I couldn’t tell for sure if the duck was inside. “Did you talk to him?”
“He was a really nice guy.”
“Then why was he keeping a duck in a cramped little cage?”
“We might not know what to do with him, either,” she answered.
“Why is that?”
“He didn’t want to sell him to me. I offered him ten dollars, but he wouldn’t take it. He said he was a really mean duck that they originally got as a Christmas present for the grandchildren, and they used to fuss over him all the time. Then when he got bigger, he started hissing at the kids—he hisses at everyone—and chased them around the yard. He became such a nuisance trying to bite people, he eventually had to put him in a cage. He used to be in with another duck, but he thinks he might have killed it, because they woke up one morning and the other duck was dead.”
“Well, we don’t want that kind of duck, either.”
“He looked so pathetic in that cage, I asked the farmer, ‘Would you sell him to me?’ and I tried to give him ten dollars, but he told me no. He said the duck was only worth twenty-five cents, and that’s all he would take. He made me give him a quarter. But he told me not to take any chances, to keep the duck away from us and keep him away from the other ducks. So you’ll have to put up a fence to keep him separate.”
“What do you mean, ‘a fence’?”
“Like the loop you put in the pen to separate the call ducks,” she answered cheerily. “I want to call him Hector.”
“I don’t want him at all. He sounds too dangerous to keep.”
“He looks like a Hector.”
“I’ve still got the loop,” I conceded. “I saved it.”
“Make sure he can’t get out of it,” Linda said. “I don’t want any of our ducks getting killed.”
With trepidation, I trudged briskly to the lower level of the barn, where I had left the wire loop curled up next to the disassembled tree-branch “teepees” that had supported Linda’s pole beans the previous year. Even the geese seemed nervous when I dragged the fence into their pen, and honk restlessly as I nailed it to the wooden posts with poultry staples. Finishing the task with a couple of hammer whacks, I brooded about a sociopathic twenty-five-cent Muscovy possibly disrupting our peaceful duck and goose society. Hector’s introduction also put my own well-being at risk, as defined by Dr. Glaser. Despite the occasional bouts of animal injury or illness, pet care had settled into a series of routines and rituals, from bedtime vocal concerts to elaborate parrot feedings. Hector stood poised to add an element of chaos. He threatened to complicate rather than simplify my life. What would come next after taking in a killer duck? Living with bears in the hollowed-out side of a hill?
“It’s done,” I told Linda, who waited outside the duck pen with the animal carrier in tow. “You might as well grab him out and bring him in.”
“I’m not picking him up!”
“Then put the carrier inside the loop.”
The carrier entered the circular enclosure as I stepped out of it. Leaning down, I popped the latch with as little finger contact with the front grate as possible. Clutching the top handle and the smooth plastic back, I tipped the carrier forward, releasing the Muscovy in the same way I had released the raccoons. My first glimpse of Hector shocked me. He was as wiry and tough a duck as I could have imagined. His feathers were white but soiled by streaks of dirt. Patches of yellow on the flat of his tail suggested a recent dabbing with iodine. But his face was the immediate attention getter. While Daphne wore a demure mask of bare facial skin, the entire front of Hector’s head was encased in a bright red fleshy, knobby mass that no stretch of the imagination could term visually appealing. He didn’t need defenses against rivals or predators. Appearance alone would discourage attack. Compounding the effect of this visceral hood, a narrow crest of feathers rose from his head in a series of connected spikes. Beak wide open, steely eyes flashing, he panted a gravelly succession of hisses whose vehemence made me retreat from the fence, swallow hard, back out of the pen, and wish the other residents the best of luck.
The spectacle of Hector compelled me to reconsider Dr. Glaser’s insight to my dreams. Maybe they didn’t reflect my love of habit and routines after all and were as bland as unbuttered toast for a far more obvious reason. My days included such improbabilities as a parrot that could reason, a dove-breeding magician, bunny songs, the night-night hat, a duck that personified a raging id, and my role as a tree for our birds. With waking hours that outrageous, who needed an excursion to Xanadu after dark?