Walk Like a Duck


For those of you who have been following my posts, I thank you and I am sure you are now well aware I have a rather ‘strange’ sense of humour.  What I find delightfully funny and will laugh manically about…others will look sideways at and back away slowly.  I know I have a rather odd and abstract way of looking at the world at times.  So yesterday I sent out requests for a few people I know to check out my rather interesting take on sexual fantasies in a a public setting and how to go about it discreetly.

Nobody has ‘de-friended’ me on Facebook yet, so I think I am in the clear.

Yesterday afternoon I am driving over to my run clinic and I am sitting in traffic listening to the traffic report on the radio.  I am in downtown Vancouver and it’s not that far to the place I run out of so I hear Kim Seal, our stellar traffic reporter, announce that the Patullo Bridge is ‘unofficially’ closed or down to so many lanes.  For those of you not familiar with the area, the Patullo Bridge connects Surrey and New Westminster.  It is an old bridge that makes one feel a bit claustrophobic to cross as it is very narrow.

It would seem that a family of ducks decided to cross the bridge.  There was mama duck and troop of duckling tagging along behind and they were heading West from the Surrey side over to the New Westminster side.

Now you could ask yourself why she didn’t take them across the Fraser River, the body of water the bridge span is built over,  but I think the current would have been far too strong for the little guys to get across safely.  You could also ask yourself why did the ducks cross the bridge?  What does New Westminster have that Surrey doesn’t?

The ducks would have been a little late for the Army & Navy’s annual shoe sale…so we can safely cross that one off the list.  I tell you now, if you ever want to see something wild and wooly, come to the annual Army & Navy Shoe sale.  It has become quite a phenomenon. It is shopping madness at its very best.  If you love designer shoes and could get a pair that would normally sell for $500-$1200 at just $40…well, you see my point.  And they sell well over 100,000 pairs of shoes over the two days that it runs.  It is crazy!

The ducks may have wanted to come over the hang out in any number of the pubs that New Westminster hosts.  I live in New Westminster and it quite small in size actually.  It is about 15.3 square kilometers in size and host approximately 12 pubs.  I live just a couple of blocks off of Columbia Street which is the main drag in downtown New West and I have five pubs in my area that I could walk to from my home very easily.

But I digress.  Back to our waddlers.

Whose to say why the ducks decided to cross the bridge yesterday but they caused quite a stir.  Some guy stopped and tried to round the little guys up to get them out of the way so that they wouldn’t become duck soup.  I know a request was made that someone could perhaps bring some boxes so they could scoop them all up and get them out of harms way.  Still, it is one of those stories that made me smile.  Ducks are such awkward little guys and they don’t show much in the way of fear.  They don’t really have much in the way of a defense either.  A skunk will spray you with a foul smell.  A porcupine has its quills.  Ducks are just awkwardly cute little guys.  If you have food they are quite willing to come take it from you…and they will follow you anywhere if they know you have food for them…or at least the ducks I have met have been like that, and believe me, I have met a lot of ducks in my day.

They are rather obstinate little creatures as well.  Demanding and rude at times. They don’t have a song either…they have a quack. I was thinking just now of certain people who may have been a duck in a past life and Fran Drescher comes to mind with that wonderful New York accent of hers.

I hope all the ducks lived to see another day and a big shout out to the guy who tried to get them out of the way of rush hour traffic.

Have a great day everyone!  A duck by any other name is still a duck.

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