Duck

I knew when he walked in with the duck that he meant business.

“Put down the duck and we can talk,” I said.

“The duck stays,” he told me.

“All right then," I said. “Put down the chicken.”

“Not if my life depended on it,” was the reply. “You put down that beaver and maybe we can get this show on the road.”

“Nothing doing, pal,” I said. “The beaver stays. We've been together a long time and there’s nothing you can say to me that you can’t say in front of him - or the raccoon for that matter. And I ain‘t putting him down, either.”

“The raccoon’s new,” he said. “How’d the raccoon enter the picture?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Started when I get this here chipmunk. They’re inseparable. A package deal.”

“I understand,” he said. “Like this here wombat and ferret. Two peas in a proverbial pod.”

”Somewhat like my Siamese-twin dwarf alligators,” I said. ”I picked them up in Bagnkok. Hell, you can get anything you want in Bangkok.”

“Don‘t I know it,” he retorted. ”Where do think I got these babies?”

When he held up the Siamese-twin dwarf hippos, I just about dropped everything.

”Damn!” was all I could manage.

The cigarette dangling from my lips was in need of a light. And as if he sensed my desire, Timmy, my squirrel monkey, reached into my pocket, snagged my Zippo and fired me up.

“I seem to be at an unfair advantage,” I said. “You can really do some damage with Siamese-twin dwarf hippos."

“I haven’t lost an argument yet," he said.

When the state outlawed firearms, critter-flinging at twenty paces became the established practice for settling disputes.

It was cruel and unusual, yes. But it did put people back in touch with nature. And is that such a bad thing?