Meet Pauly W. McQuacker
Yet another invader who tries to supplant me in the home hierarchy system I have so skillfully cultivated here at Chez Zoe. Not only did he try to play the old cute card (been there - ) but is also is playing the ultimate Chez Zoe trump card "I hurting". Yep. The limp.
He knows my woman well. No sooner did he hobble up to her all quacks and feather ruffling... leg dragging pitifully behind him did she scoop that faker poser up, nestled him, smoothed his feathers and wisked him into the house - INTO THE KITCHEN! MY SPOT! CAD!
You can guess where I went. Yep. Out to my secret laboratory to whip up a tar mash to drown that little quack in. I am gonna bite his head off, shake his feathers off and then sling him into the tar vat! Alas, when I searched my secret laboratory - no vat! I ran upstairs and into the kitchen all the while worrying about what I might see there. Will she be hand feeding him peeled grapes? Tossing him a mixed salad? You know how she is. But he was nowhere to be found when I got to the kitchen. She was there... and there was my vat! What was she doing with my vat?
Zoe: Where is Gimpy? Perchance he flew the coop?
Woman: No. I am giving him a bath in your vat.
Foiled. Grumble grumble grumble. Skulk down to my sulking room. It was worse than I thought.
Cut to dinner time.
Kibble tastes strangely, exquisitely, luxuriously rich. Finally. The first time in my life I have not pined away for what they are eating. Why, I have never even heard of confit. I will confess - I did want the potatoes, but who doesn't?
I wonder where ol' Gimpy flew to. Who would want to fly from a place where the woman bathes you and pets you and hold you in her arms and feeds you tasty treats?
Ducks are a mystery to me.