If He Only Had a Brain

Me: Honey, the duck's in the pigeon pen again.
Honey: @)(*$(#!!!! How is he doing that? It's fenced in, for God's sake.
Me: Don't know. But the duck's in the pigeon pen again.
*We pull on boots, coats, gloves, grab flashlights to head out into the dark, dark, sub-freezing, icy, misty, muddy night.
Drake in pigeon pen: Wwwwaaaaaack, waaaack, waaaaaaack, waaaaaAAAAaaaack...
(echoed by the four other ducks, standing nervously near the pen in the dark, staring in at drake)
Honey: @)#*((*!!
Me: @)(*$(*#
Honey: That way! That way! Don't let him get past you!
Me: <*splat*>
Honey: Ew. Bet that mud under the pigeon roost is gross.
Pigeons: (harmonic, choral cooing to express pride in fertile . . . uh. . . mud creation in which I'm bathing)
Me: @)*)(*@#*)!!!
Honey: Wait! Wait! I got him! <*splat*> Yep, pretty gross. It's actually really gross.

*I launch myself at rapidly waddling interloper drake, manage to land on him, grab him, and pick him up.

Me: Get the gate. Hurry!
Duck: @)*#$(_#!!!

Honey: I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying.
Me (to other ducks): Wait a minute! Don't forget this one!
All Ducks: @)(*#@(*!!!


*We head back in to shower, scour clothing, put flashlights on the Wal-Mart list since we broke these or lost them in pigeon muck.

Me: You really need to anchor the bottom wire in the pigeon pen tomorrow, so the duck doesn't get back in.
Honey: Do you suppose this is why old-time farmers ate their livestock after a point?