one

He’d won the duck in a poker game. That’s what my husband had claimed two nights ago as he proudly presented me with the yellow fuzzball.

“Greg Stevens,” I’d told him sternly as I watched our dog and cat eye the newcomer with interest, “what in the world are we going to do with this little guy?”

“Keep him as a pet. What else?” He rolled his wheelchair over to me and held out the creature. “He even comes with some food.”

The duckling was so tiny and sweet, I couldn’t help but take it. I brought the little animal up to my face and rubbed its softness against my cheek while it emitted tiny squeaky quacks. Its downy coat was like velvet against my skin. I giggled when its small beak nibbled the end of my nose.

“Cute ducklings grow into large, annoying, and noisy ducks,” I reminded him as I continued cuddling the small bundle that fit into the palm of my hand like a fragile egg. “Best served with orange sauce.”

As if afraid I’d cook the little bugger up right that minute, Greg snatched him out of my hand and cuddled him against his chest. “Don’t listen to the mean lady,” he cooed to the duckling. “She’ll do no such thing.”

“Maybe not,” I told him, laughing, “but Muffin is eyeing that duck like it’s prey. Our cat may be small, but she’s still a cat, and cats hunt. Remember what she did to that lizard last week? Until that little guy is bigger, it’s going to be duck-hunting season around here.”

Greg looked from the duckling down at our cat. Muffin was on the small side and a loving, cuddly animal with a soft purr and large, curious eyes, but she was also a bruiser when it came to doing feline things like hunting and protecting her territory. Even Wainwright, our eighty-pound golden retriever, knew better than to mess with her when she was in jungle cat mode.

Greg cut his eyes to me. They were sad with the realization that I was right. “So what do you suggest we do?” he asked. “Cage Dumpster until he’s big enough to go a few rounds in the ring with Muffin?”

“Dumpster?”

“That’s what I named him,” Greg explained. “Matt said he found him near a Dumpster a few days ago in a box. No idea where he came from. He brought him to the poker game for show and tell.”

“And somehow little Dumpster ended up as part of the pot?” I asked with suspicion. “Matt must not have been having a good night.”

Greg laughed. “Actually, he had a very good night. But his wife told him to take the duck to the game and find him a home. He wasn’t to bring him back.” Greg looked a little sheepish. I knew that look. It was the look he got whenever I proved him wrong on something. “Dumpster can be a bit noisy,” he finally admitted.

“Yeah,” I said, eyeing Greg. “I can tell. He hasn’t shut up since he got here. As he gets older, those cute little chirps are going to become louder, more insistent quacks.”

I took a seat and watched Greg cuddle the little bundle of yellow fluff. It pulled at my heart. If we didn’t nip this in the bud right now, we’d both be convinced that Dumpster should become a part of our family. Greg and I both love animals, but cats and dogs were different than ducks. We live near the beach in an urban area with homes crammed together. As Dumpster got bigger and noisier, our neighbors might not be too happy about living next to Old MacDonald’s farm.

“I think we should shut this little guy up in the guest bathroom for now,” I said, sad myself. “Maybe in the tub with some food and a big pan of water. It will give him some good room to move around and still confine him, at least until we can find a home for him. We can move Muffin’s litter box out of there for a few days.”

“Of course you’re right, sweetheart,” Greg said with a deep sigh. “I’ll make some calls. I know a guy who lives on a nice piece of property near San Diego. He’s a client and he has a few kids. Maybe I can talk him into taking Dumpster. If not, there’s a guy on one of the basketball teams that lives in Hemet. He might take him. I think he has lots of animals.” He paused, then said, “How about your mother? She loves animals.” His voice was full of hope, and I could tell he really wanted to keep Dumpster in the family. My mother lives in a retirement community not far from us. “Her place allows one pet under twenty pounds. Dumpster shouldn’t get that large.”

“Ha!” I said with amusement, thinking about my septuagenarian mother with a duck. I’m sure she’d like the idea just to be different. Knowing her, she’d probably even manage to leash-train it. “I think that pet policy only refers to things like cats and dogs, and fish, providing they stay in their tank. Remember last year when one of her neighbors brought in a big snake and it got loose? The whole place was in a tizzy. I’m surprised none of those old folks keeled over from fright.” I laughed. “Seaside barely allows us on their property, Greg, and even then we can’t bring Wainwright.” I paused. “What about your parents?”

Greg fixed me with a one-eyed stare. It was his get real look. Greg’s parents, Ron and Renee, are lovely people but fairly proper. Renee Stevens runs a tight ship at her house. They were the opposite of my quirky nonconformist mother, even though they all got along surprisingly well and had become friends over the years. “Seriously, can you see my parents with a duck?” he asked.

“Only on a plate in a fine French restaurant,” I said with my own laugh. “Not to mention they travel a lot.” I gave it more thought. “How about one of those sanctuary farms?” I suggested. “I know there’s at least one here in Southern California.”

“Don’t they mostly take in abused animals and animals from factory farms?” Greg asked.

“I believe so,” I said. “But we could give them a call. I hardly think they’d turn down such a cutie as this.” I smiled at Dumpster, who answered with a tiny quack to prove my point. “Especially if Dumpster came with a nice donation.”

The next morning I called the sanctuary farm while Greg called his client and the basketball guy in Hemet. Both the farm and the fellow in Hemet said yes. We decided to go with Tip Willis, the guy from Hemet who played on one of the other wheelchair basketball teams, because he said his kids had been wanting a couple of ducks. The only hitch was that they were going out of town for a big family reunion and couldn’t take Dumpster for about a week or so. He asked if we could hang on to the little guy until then.

Winner. Winner. Duckling Dinner.

My only concern was that we’d get too attached to Dumpster to let him go when the time came. But we’d cross that emotional pond when we got to it.