I’ve never understood those people who are freaked out by birds. Something about their beady little eyes being all cold and reptilian, I guess.
I like birds. I mean, not in love or anything. I don’t practice bird calls or pepper the house with a bird decorated motif.
But, yeah. Call me pro bird.
I now realize that stance was merely a circumstance of having little interaction with the bird population at large.
I don’t know where (or if) most of you ride. We spend much time on a couple of bayous. Which means water.
There are…ducks.
At first, this posed no problem. Why should it? Aside from the occasional, “Oh, look! Ducks! How pretty,” there was really very little to say.
However, as I started logging more saddle time I started noticing. Things.
Like, the occasional duck who stood in the middle of the path and met your eyes. Defiantly.
(There is nothing so defiant as the gaze of a duck!)
You could tell it was somehow…daring you.
Daring you to hit it? Come within snapping range? Kill yourself practicing avoidance maneuvers?
I DO NOT KNOW
Worse, there were the ducks who saw you coming and moved deliberately to block your path.
DELIBERATELY
It was…disturbing.
I don’t want you to think I’m maligning the general duck population.
These were rogue ducks
You could see it in their beady little eyes….
After several rides enduring duck bullying, a memory surfaced from my childhood. My grandmother had a duck. It used to chase my sister, cousin, and self out of our toddler wading pool.
Strangely, if memory serves, no one wanted to interfere with the duck. Excuses were made, along the lines of the duck being old and crotchety.
Now, I see those excuses for what they were.
Duck enabling.
Or maybe, just maybe, they were just terrified.
Of the duck.
All that long-winded meandering boils done to one thing.
I get it now.
Those people that think birds are creepy minions of evil?
They were talking about ducks.
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