Newsflash! Island Bay Duck Captured
Rogue Muscovy's Chaos-Spree Ends Behind Bars
Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows: “Oddsbodikins!” said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead. “Rouse thee, old loon, and take over from us this vile Toad, a criminal of deepest guilt and matchless artfulness and resource. Watch and ward him with all thy skill; and mark thee well, greybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy old head shall answer for his—and a murrain on both of them!”
Outside New World, one very old man sits down next to another on the bench. There’s a biting Southerly; both are wearing hats. Despite a desire to eavesdrop, I can only hear snatches of their conversation.
”How are you?”
”I’m good.”
”Are you really?”
”Weelll, to be honest, I’m not very good.”
They go into a comparison of ailments, what my friend Mary calls an organ recital.
“I notice you don’t use a stick.”
”Eh?”
”I said, I SEE YOU DON’T USE A WALKING STICK.”
…
”I’m 83. EIGHTY-THREE.”
”Oh, are you?”
…
”Have you been doing any singing lately?”
”No, I haven’t been singing, I’ve lost my voice. I mean, I still sing at home, but I run out of breath, you know.”
A Muscovy1 duck lands in the middle of the road in front of us. It’s the famous rogue duck of Island Bay. I’ve seen it once before, sitting on the fence by the supermarket carpark. Glossy green and black, like petrol on tarmac, with white wing-accents, and red skin around its eyes like a super-villain’s mask. Cars and trucks check and swerve and the duck, with an affronted manner, walks— somewhat— out of their path. Next minute a woman passes by with a net in hand, Looney Tunes-style. “Oh, are you going to catch him?” I say.
”Going to try to.”
As she approaches the duck, it takes evasive action, so I go around behind like a farmer’s dog, into the road, to herd the duck toward her. As we pincer the duck between us, it tacks sideways, one way, then the other, before suddenly taking flight. With a flurry of flaps it flies low around the corner and into the supermarket carpark. The woman with the net follows after.
Me, calling after her: “You need a longer net!”
Her, calling back: “ We’ve tried everything, blankets, fishing nets…”
Me: “Maybe a trap? Lure him in?”
One old man’s vanished, so I sit down next to the other on the bench. I’m humming the supermarket tune, The Cranberries ‘Dreams’ (Changing every day, every possible way…)
”That’s nice to hear you sing.” he says. He’s wearing a tweed newsboy cap, and has beautiful brown eyes.
Me: ”Ah yes, you’re a singer too, aren’t you? I heard you talking to your friend.”
Him: “I don’t even know that guy’s name!”
Me: “What kind of singing do you do?”
Him: “I trained in opera, but I used to do musical comedy. I used to sing at clubs and events.”
Me: “Opera! …I’m more of a folk singer. Anyone can do folk singing. That is, anyone can TRY to do it! But some people are better at it than others.”
I tell him I’m going to Shanty Club tonight at the Welsh Bar. “Where’s that?”
Me: “It’s right at the end of Courtenay Place, bottom of Kent and Cambridge— you know?— it used to be a public toilet.”
Him: “Oh, the Taj Mahal!”
Me: “Yes, but now it’s a Welsh pub, the Welsh Dragon.”
Him: “Oh yes, I’ve seen that from the bus.”
The bus comes, but a truck parked at the supermarket’s loading bay is snookering its turn. The bus begins an incremental many-point manoeuvring, and I see that the driver is one I know, a young guy with a black mullet and a moustache, like a cool 80s Uncle. He carefully clears the truck and the pole and pulls triumphantly into the bus stop, then disembarks to straighten up his wing mirror.
Just then the woman comes past with the duck in a cage. Me, impressed: “Oh! You caught him! Where are you taking him?”
Her: “To the bird rescue. His mate’s already there, so that’s where I’ll take him.”
The duck’s beak is poking through the cage-wires, but it’s basically chill. It knows the game’s up. They go off up the road and the old man says to me, “I wonder how she managed to get him in the cage?”
Me: “I dunno. Maybe she’s a professional bird-catcher.”
(Tough luck for the duck, but pure happiness for me; pure city-watching poetry.)
The Internet informs me that despite the Russian name, Muscovies are native to the Americas. They are one of the oldest domestic fowl species in the world, and were already kept in Peru and Paraguay when the Spanish [murdering bastards] arrived; ie., they’re not descended from mallards, but are a different species of duck altogether.
Furthermore, Aztec rulers wore cloaks made from the feathers of the Muscovy Duck, which was considered the totem animal of the Wind God, Ehecatl.
I also discovered that male Muscovies are too hefty to fly, meaning that the duck of this tale is, in fact, female; but I’ll leave the dialogue verbatim.
I’ve eaten duck eggs in the South Island. They’re about one and a half times the size of a chicken’s egg, with a strong shell, and are very rich; good for baking cakes. However, if you’re tempted to ducknap one, bear in mind that they do not enjoy being caught and picked up and will squirt their droppings as a form of defence.
Hah. I wish it was true that male Muscovy's are too heavy to fly, alas our 3 boys have busted out of Cluckinghen Palance once, all together, and Quacky Chan has been missing for 2 weeks now that he's taking himself off to some karate tournament at the lagoon or whatever (neighbour a few kms away has female Muscovy's in his pond so maybe Quacky somehow found them?)... either way, they can fly long enough to get out of 2.5m of chicken wire. But I love them too. Excellent birds.
a lovely piece, i don't have space to read them all.
perhaps your attendant wizardry let ducky rest a spell, a spell long enough to be netted.