LOVE ME, LOVE MY DUCK

In Mazatlán, as in most civi- lized places, they have zoning laws which help protect one from eccentric neighbors who let their pets get out of control. In our neighborhood, on the other hand, it’s a different story. Outside the city, beyond the pale, in the outback where we live, anything goes. For example, the family across the way has for years kept a large raccoon on a chain by the path where everyone walks. Also, one day while we were out, someone evidently came by to visit us with a large horse which devoured our entire bean patch. Personally, I’ve always loved animals in general and canines in particular, but I was unprepared for my wife and her family’s fervor for feathered creatures. I remember when her papa went to Jalisco for a week, and the big parrot which would only eat from his hands pined away and died a couple of hours before he got back. Even the most faithful of dogs won’t do that. And even that parrot’s devotion pales beside Sra Brady’s passion for ducks. When I first visited her home, I thought it was kind of cute the way the ducks would lurk under the table gobbling up scraps of food. Now, sadder but wiser, I take a less adoring view of the web footed varmints. Not that my opinion matters much. We spent our first year together in a housing development where everybody shares a wall or three with the neighbors. Even though they have city bylaws against such things, our humble little abode was soon overrun with a couple dozen adorable little ducklings. Now, don’t get me wrong, I genuinely like ducks. A full grown duck is a noble and agreeable creature. I hate to see food go to waste, and they cheerfully eat all the leftovers. They emit a pleasant, bassoonish call, they eat scorpions and they taste even better than chicken. I love ducks. It’s ducklings I can’t stand! A herd of ducklings fills the air with a high pitched cheeping that makes concentrated thought or even idle daydreaming impossible. I admit that I am

sensitive to the point of neurosis when it comes to high pitched sounds. If someone on the bus is whistling, I’ll get off and catch another bus. If a co-worker turns out to be a chronic whistler, I’ll look for another job. If a bird with a shrill voice perches on our orange tree, I’ll throw rocks at it until it flies out of earshot. I know I’m sick but I can’t help it. It’s not that I hate high pitched peepers too persistent to be ignored. Hate is much too mild a word. I can’t stand them, they are anathema to me and I imagine that my time in the Purgatory section of Hell will be spent surrounded by chirping, tweeting waterfowl. Just like being at home. And, naturally, my kids have turned against me and decided that they, too, love the fuzzy baby “patitos,” so that makes me the mean old “ogro” who keeps throwing them out of the bed and chasing them around the house with a broom. The ducklings I mean, not the kids. Now that we have built our dream house far from the animal control departamento’s jurisdiction, we are doing our part and more to save the duck from extinction. They gather under my window at dawn, a choir of bassoons, oboes and piccolos all clamoring for breakfast to give them the strength to go out and multiply some more. Last week, my wife caught some urchins sneaking around in our garden searching for duck eggs which they sell for five pesos each to the local curanderos (witch doctors). In spite of my protests and denials, she still believes the kid who told her I was paying them an extra peso for each egg they stole. I suppose I should have written a duck ordnance into the wedding vows, but I naively believed the old saying, “Aqui en Mexico, el hombre manda,” or “Here in Mexico, the man is the boss.” Come to find out, Mexico is now a true democracy and I’ve been outvoted. Anybody out there know where I can buy a fox, or maybe just rent a weasel for a few days? eg@pacificpearl.com