The Death of a Duck

(In case the title wasn't already enough of a spoiler for you, here's the story.)

I grew up in a house that has a backyard adjacent to a canal. During the spring, it was a common occurrence for me to see entire broods of Muscovy duckling waddling to and fro and paddling their way across the canal, their little webbed feet working furiously under the water in an attempt to keep up with their mother. Over the course of a few days, it was not uncommon to see a well-populated brood dwindle to only a handful of ducklings awkwardly tumbling behind the mother duck.

Being exposed to not other wild animals besides the Muscovy ducks, I went through a period in my childhood in which I suddenly declared that ducks were my absolute favorite animals in the entire world, in particular the Pekin variety. And as it often is with children's desires, I wanted a pet duck.

Naturally, my parents refused, stating that I could pretend that all of the Muscovy ducks belonged to me. In my child's mind, Muscovy ducks, with warty, red growths encroaching across their bills, were no where near the same caliber of finesse as the Pekin duck, but I was still content to provide them with bits of bread to eat.

To further add insult to injury, my mother ordered me to never, EVER  go near my "pet" ducklings.

"Well, why not?" I huffed.

"Because the mother duck with very over-protective, and if she sees you trying to go for her babies, she will attack you."

I shuddered. Why would she attack the person feeding her bits of bread?

"Ducks don't understand loyalty, Barbara," Mom explained.

My curiosity had been provoked. "Then how would she attack if she's not loyal to her duckies?"

"Oh, no, she's loyal to them. Not to us. She'd bite."

"Do duck bites hurt, Mommy?"

"Yes, I tell you this from experience. Don't get close to them." The severity in her tone suggested that I should heed her warning. I always made sure that whenever I gave the ducks bread, I would stay several feet away. It was difficult to see a number of fluffy, peeping ducklings and not be able to caress one of them. I wondered if I would ever get the chance to touch a duckling someday.

That chance would come. Several years ago, Miami faced a period in which it rained for three days straight that led to floods. This continuous rain, oddly enough, was not related to a hurricane pattern. Still, this meteorological fluke ensured impromptu school closures and prohibited people from safely driving to work. It was great to be able to stay home with Mom and Dad and feel like I had somehow struck gold from not going to school.

The novelty waned by the second day. During the rainstorm, I lamented being cooped in my room and dreamed about going outside to walk around the canal's edge, its presence taunting me from the window. All of a sudden, amid a strong gust parting the water, I spotted a flash of yellow.

With the rain's relentless pounding in thick curtains of water, it was difficult at first to decipher what the yellow bundle could possibly be when I saw it move!

There was no mistaking the clumsy waddle. It was a lost duckling! I yelled for my parents to come look.

"Mom! Dad! There's a duckling outside! It's all alone. What should we do?"

Without hesitation, Dad slipped on his American school bus yellow raincoat and marched deftly into the pelting rain to save the duckling.

I was so happy! My family would finally have a real pet duckling to take care of! For the time-being, Mom contrived a little home for the duckling using a plastic crate, a towel and some old newspapers. I thought the accommodations were too spartan for him and asked my mother if I could place a duck plushie to make him feel even more at home.

"Absolutely not," Mom replied.

As the duckling cheeped and explored his relatively cozy confines, I hovered above the crate and watched his every move.

My mind raced with what I would name the duckling, deeming "Quackers" as being a suitable option. Yes, I had only known the duckling for a few hours, but by naming it, I demonstrated a deep sense of attachment. In fact, the way I glowered at it prompted my mother to tell me to go off and leave the duckling alone.

I didn't want to, of course.

"For how long should I leave him?"

"Oh...a few minutes. He needs his peace and quiet, too."

I went to my room and stared at the clock, waiting for "a few minutes" to pass. Twenty minutes to be sufficient time to have left Quackers on his own. Thinking that he was probably hungry, I ran to the kitchen and scrounged for a slice of bread, betting that Quackers would love to eat what he found in his natural habitat. The spongy slice in hand, I made a beeline for his crate. I stood on my tiptoes and looked down at him.

Quackers laid on his side, no longer peeping.

I bent my knees and gently nudged his little plump body with an index finger, seeing if he would react to my presence. Nothing.

His limp body rolled back and forth based on how poked him. Still nothing. He remained inert and silent.

I couldn't understand it. He was fine only a few minutes ago, and now he's not moving, I thought.

"Mommy? What's wrong with Quackers?"

Mom peered over the crate and gave a sharp intake of breath. What she said next was uttered in a soothing tone, the one mothers reserve for when they are faced with the difficult task of needing to comfort while presenting bad news.

"Oh...Barbara. I think he's died."

Until that fateful moment, death had been a foreign concept to me. Yes, I was aware that it happened to other people and animals, and that it was met with sadness. In fact, when I was even younger, I wasn't able to understand that Charlie the German Shepherd from All Dogs Go to Heaven was supposed to be dead and escaping death throughout the whole film. (Huh. Another title with a spoiler.)

This poignant moment marked the first true encounter that I had with the senseless loss of life. Not only had my hopes of finally having a pet duckling been dashed, Quackers wouldn't even have the chance for me to show him how much my family and I would love him in the comfort of a warm home.

My child self was distraught and reacted by the only means possible: crying.

But I didn't just simply cry. Oh, no. In that despair, it was if someone had opened the floodgates to my soul.

I sobbed until my eyes ached and were reduced to swollen, red globules. My anguish made me inconsolable to the extent that my parents' voice of reason and attempts to quell my tears were deflected. Life became a blur.

An hour later, my father coaxed me towards him to join him in watching a bout of television. Cuddling me closer to his side, he decided to embark on educating me about how life was not fair.

"I'b gobing to miss the bucky, Dabby," I snorted thickly, my voice muffled with a heavy coating of snot. "Why dib he hab to die?"

"Look, honey, I know it's not just to see something so small and innocent pass away, but death is another part of this life. And, yes, it is unfortunate, but you can't let it stop you from living. All you can do now is remember the good times you had with the ducky."

His words probably would have had a bigger impact had my allotted time with Quackers surpassed more than a mere three hours.

"But he dibbint deserb to die so soon," I bawled.

"Think about this: at least he died surrounded by people instead of being all alone in the wild, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"We made sure he was comfortable in his final moments on this Earth. So, don't worry. He is going to be okay, as are you. Now, let's watch the T.V."

I don't recall which program we had sat down to watch. I gave a bleary glare at the dancing images bouncing off the screen. My raspy breathing slowed, the inhales steady, the exhales calm. The tears stopped.

"Yes, that's it. You see?"

A sniffle was my answer.

"Here, let's just keep watching the T.V., all right? It'll distract you."

"Okay, Daddy."

My poor father. Not even he could have predicted that the very first commercial to appear during the commercial break would be for a toilet cleaning product which has for a mascot... a small, quacking duck.



The following is a rough interpretation of how the commercial, with its unfortunate timing, sounded in my head.

Fast-forward a couple of decades and you will find me not only using "Canard," the French version of said toilet cleaner, but also occasionally feasting on Magret de Canard without batting an eye.

As it was, Quackers wouldn't be the only pet duck in my life, and that one led a more successful and happier time with us.

But that's a story for another day.

Barb the French Bean

How Iño the Cat Saved Me from the Playground Bully

Back in my earliest memories of growing up in New Jersey, long before my family decided to trade the frozen tundra of the North for sunny mosquito-and-humidity-ridden Miami, I used to have a cat plushie that I christened Iño the Cat.

If you are wondering how to pronounce Iño, it's Ee-nyoh. I credit his Spanish-sounding name to the fact that Spanish was my first language. This is perfectly normal when you are under the age of five and are surrounded by said language because your parents speak Spanish, and their neighbors speak Spanish, and your parents' friends speak Spanish, and your cousins, uncle and godparents speak Spanish and the Disney Channel is in English (hey, I had to learn my native tongue somewhere).

Iño wasn't even mine to begin with. He belonged to one of my older cousins, but from the moment my toddler self laid eyes on him, I knew that it was love at first sight. I began bouncing like a caffeinated rubber ball chanting "Iño, Iño, Iño!"

What did that mean?

That meant that I had a new toy. My little arms clutched tightly to his velvet texture and squeezed into his fluffy body with deep admiration. He was so soft and inviting, and I was never going to let him go.

Iño and I were nearly inseparable. Ours was a great love story. We were like peas and carrots. Cookies and milk. Peanut butter and jelly. PG Tips and milk. Escargots and parsley garlic butter sauce. Lechon asado and arroz moros.

(Is it just me, or are the best pairing examples often food-related? Either that or I must be hungry.)

The peculiar aspect of Iño the Cat was that he was, in reality, a Felix the Cat doll. You remember Felix the Cat, doncha? The black cat that has a yellow magic bag of tricks?

(I would so carry a yellow purse marked with crosses and dots.)

But in my hands, Felix the plushie was no longer Felix. He was Iño. My parents tried, to no avail, to correct my mistake by saying that my new toy's name was "el gato Felix" and not "Iño."

Their adult reasoning was no match for my toddler vociferousness. He was Iño the Cat, not Felix, and that was that; they accepted it. Persistence triumphs over logic.

Anyway, the only vulnerable moments in which Iño and I were separated were when my mother washed him and when I would go to the park to hang out in the playground. I've been told by people older than myself that I was a fairly amiable and sensitive child who could at times be hyperactive but had an overall pleasant demeanor. In other words, these wholesome traits made me bully fodder and I was highly susceptible to accept any invitations to be abused by the neighborhood playground tyrants.

And I was.

I don't remember his name, but for the purpose of this post, I'll refer to him as "Dickwad the III."

Dickwad the III was your average bully, the despotic kind that because of his bulky stature and questionable personal life feels the need to belittle others to give himself a false sense of superiority. I also suspect that his anger was fueled due to his lack of some decent-sized "manhood."

Since he was far too young to purchase a gigantic car to compensate for his minuscule genitals, it was unfortunate for everyone that Dickwad the III sought out to justify his dominion when he crowned himself king of the slide, see-saw and swing set. Woe unto me when I invaded "his" territory.

Poor sensitive me ran away in a flood of tears. His treatment towards me was unjust and unmerited and I couldn't understand why he would abuse me in this manner. Some adults suspected that he may have had a crush on me, but who were they kidding? That couldn't be possible; he called me dumb. No one says that to me and gets away with it. But how was I going to face him when he could easily overpower me with his pinky?

I had a revelation. I couldn't bring myself to vanquish this bully, but I knew someone who could.

In my child's imagination, Iño could accomplish anything because he was the Honey Badger of stuffed toys (he didn't give a shit). Iño would help me face Dickwad the III because he was my guardian, my sentinel and, most importantly, my valiant friend.

Under Iño's protective aura, I had the resolve to face my playground nemesis. Nothing was going to stop me  from seeking justice.

The following day, my mother took us to the neighborhood playground. I searched the area until I spotted Dickwad the III traumatizing some smaller kids over by the swings. I couldn't take his arrogance any longer. Holding Iño at arm's length like a shield, he and I charged like the pair of enraged banshees we were and confronted Dickwad the III's tyranny head-on!

You gotta face your problems directly, folks. It helps to make your opposition scared straight because you went right after them with a high-pitched war cry and shook a cat plushie in their face.

Let it be known that from that moment on, Dickwad the III knew better than to mess with the little girl on the playground. I will never forget Iño's act of bravery. To this day, whenever I see Felix the Cat in stores, I brush a tear from my eye, reminiscing about that one glorious, fateful day when my cherished Iño beat up a boy who was much bigger than I was.

Barb the French Bean