Flippy

Nope. Never thought I’d be writing this when I was cleaning duckshit out of a baby pool with a hose in fifteen degree seven a.m. conditions. In case you are wondering, that’s cold enough to make the greenish-white dribble freeze to the fluorescent plastic. I had a spatula reserved for mornings like that. Or maybe you are more interested in the duck than in the shit. Flippy was her name and she was nothing more than a duck, in fact, she was less: she was a runt. But when I wasn’t cleaning up after her I think I loved her. She couldn’t quack, only imitate broken squeezie toys. And she couldn’t fetch, only half waddle with a bum wing and the cutest

pair of polished eyes ever bought at the glass bead store. She was scared of water and ran around confused and pooping whenever we filled her green pool up with the hose. Yea, Flippy was special. She might not have known she was a duck but she knew me, loved me and not just because I was the first one to see her and her watery deposits every morning. When that raccoon or fox or beast came to get her and the other duck we raised, she said “this one’s on me, this is my family.” Pretty brave for a stunted little duck. Hey Flip, I know there's lots of toast and crispex up there, but in case you've paused to wonder, you were my family too.