Duck Deal in the Park

With every passing year, I’m increasingly surprised by the things that come from practicing presence. Sometimes the most incredible things happen not because we’ve planned them out, but because our world can be full of grace that we get to receive. Recently a friend asked me to write this true story down. So I did. And, I am very grateful that she made me, because the story is very true and very beautiful. My grammar and syntax don’t begin to do it justice. Suffice it to say, this experience changed me, and however insufficient my communication of it is, some stories need to be told:

The word “Sabbath” always sounded pretty dull until the summer our teacher told us that resting was wrapped up with feasting and feasting wasn’t just about food—it was about all that brings life.

I was working in Denver for the Summer. So was my friend Alex. We were doing this program called “Denver Urban Semester.” We were taking spiritual formation classes and we both had internships. I was hanging out with homeless youth—“youth” loosely defined, and she was hanging out with women coming out of the sex trade—strippers, escorts, and what have you. Needless to say, it was a heavy summer. This was after our sophomore year of college. We would come home from work every day, bursting with stories and tears.

We needed more laughter—more moments with life in them. In response to our teacher’s charge to “Sabbath,” Alex told us that she needed a duck. This had been a dream, she said, for a while. Who was I to deny the girl the Sabbath of her choice? If ducks bring rest and life, by all means, don’t let me stand in the way. It turns out that ducks are considered exotic birds in Denver, Colorado and as such, are not sold in pet stores. So, we drove.

We found ourselves an hour outside of the city, in Conifer, in a mansion. The internet had directed us here, and it is here that we met a father and a son, avid duck breeders whose kitchen was full of kiddy pools and heat lamps. There was a sadness about the place, for some reason we all knew that mom had just left, probably for good. The ducks added an element of comedy that seemed appropriate for the somber house. They only charged us 5 dollars. Alex had forgotten her money and someone else paid. But, the 3 week old duck was hers. And ours. We all assumed roles in the family, as centered around the duck. Alex, of course, was the mom. Grant was the dad. Nathan and I were the strict Aunt and Uncle, and Rachel was the crazy, fun Aunt.

We named the Duck “Mugatu Skiddly Bop Bagova Na Na Na,” a conglomeration of jokes, mostly centered around the movie ZOOLANDER, which we had watched the night before. And rightly the question was posed, who doesn’t want to scat in the middle of their pet’s name?

Alex and I lived in a loft apartment. There were tiny stairs that led up to a tiny room where our bed was. You couldn’t stand up straight, you just had to hunch over until you were lying down. So, clearly, we moved our bed downstairs to the living room, and Mugatu got our vacated bedroom. Things went smoothly for a while. We weren’t really supposed to have pets in our apartment, but exotic ducks aren’t really supposed to be pets, so we were breaking the implicit and explicit rules about pet ownership.

The duck would make repetitive cheeping noises when we came in the door from work until someone, most probably Alex, went upstairs to get it. Evenings would be passed with the duck accompanying us no matter the activity. Alex was frequently seen laying on her back, Mugatu on her stomach, stroking her head and neck and overall communicating “You are my duck and I love you.”

There were two major problems, however, that we were reminded of daily. First, it smelled worse and worse with every passing minute. Our apartment was hot, and if there was air conditioning, this was not the kind of conditioning we had asked for. Second, the duck was growing with absurd rapidity. Boxes felt like a cruel way to confine our beloved duck. Release into the wild was a viable option until Alex googled the plight of domesticated ducks set free into the world—gang rape and then probable death. Every website said it. We were at an impasse. The duck had grown out of our small apartment, and the local lake looked like a possible crime scene.

We put off dealing with it until one morning before work. A somber discussion decided that today we figure out what to do with Mugatu. There would be no rest until we found a home.

My day at work was pretty normal. I hung out on the streets with my new friends, which was, I suppose, akin to spending time in their kitchens, living rooms, bathrooms, and bedrooms. I heard stories that so few others got to hear—crazy stories. I watched my new friends get spat on and avoided by the people in suits coming out of big tall buildings. I watched as people tried to engineer my new friends out of the only place they had to call home. I went to the park after lunch to see what people were up to—the shade from the trees was a welcome relief from the hot Denver sun. I saw a new guy that day, a guy I’d never seen on the streets before. His name was Paul.

We must’ve talked for an hour. He was a traveler. So, unlike a lot of the kids living on the streets, he wasn’t a part of a group—he went it alone. Denver was one stop on his uncertain trek around the country. He’d been messed with a lot because he didn’t have a street family. He was recounting his most recent journey for me in great detail. It was hard to hear and broke my heart and then he finished his sentence with the wonderful words I have in my recent memory—“And then the fuckin’ cops took my duck away.”

“I’m sorry—what?” I said.

“Yeah, my duck, Lucky, the fuckin’ pigs took her away.”

All too casually for what had just been revealed to me, I
replied, “Are you in the market for a new duck, Paul?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have one, I have a duck and I need to give it to
someone. I mean, I really can’t take care of it anymore
and actually my roommate and I decided this morning
that we had to find a way to get rid of it today, and now
you are telling me you had one and it was your best friend
and I just thought that that maybe you might want one?”

He stared blankly at me for a moment. Without responding to my question he began telling me all the ways to care for a duck. He told me that Lucky loved Lettuce. He told me that Lucky came when he called her after a bit of training. He told me that the best way to train Mugatu would be to carry it around with me all day—like he did Lucky, and then it would know it was mine and that I would protect it. I told him that it wasn’t possible to carry it around all the time with me and that also I maybe was a little allergic to it, although I didn’t want my roommate to know just how allergic. And that actually, he knew much more about duck care than I ever would—not that I didn’t want to learn. So, I offered again.

“Paul, can you please take my duck? I won’t charge you anything
for it and I think it would be the best way to care for it. You know
more about it than I do.”

“When can I get it?” He asked.

“I’ll bring it to the park around 4ish. Meet me back here?”

“Yeah. Just call me,” He said, “I’ll probably be down under the
bridge drinkin’ some juice but if you call three times I’ll know
it’s you and I’ll come find you. You know, I believe in God.”

“Yeah? Me too.” I said. “Why do you say that?”

“Every time I ask Him for something, I get it. I’ve never asked for
something I needed and not gotten it. I needed a duck, and here
God is, bringing me a duck.”

“That’s beautiful, Paul. Keep askin’, my friend. Obviously
God loves you a lot.”

What happened that afternoon is now affectionately referred to by my family as “the day I did a DUCK DEAL” in the park. My grandpa makes my parents tell the story at parties and he cries every time. Mugatu is happy and living in Laramie, Wyoming with Paul. They live near a river. Not long after moving there I got a message from Paul telling me that Mugatu is a girl—you can’t find those things out until they molt. He now calls her Mugat-a, and they will call me occasionally to check in.

 

 

 

 

 

Kindly,

Annie Dimond