It was a dark and dreary and rainy morning. Colder than it has been, too.
We were talking about it at work. “It’s a good day to be a duck,” I said.
My boss corrected me. “Actually, it’s a really bad day to be a duck. Know why?”
I shook my head.
“Any time it’s a low ceiling, it’s a great day to be a…”
“Hunter,” I interrupted as I figured out where he was going.
“Yep,” he said.
“I know so much about hunting,” I said, “that it’s a good thing my wife is a vegetarian. If she had to rely on my hunting, she’d starve.”
He laughed.
“My dad used to go duck hunting. And about once every three years or so, he’d bring home a duck. So I guess if I hunted, I’d be a vegetarian too.”
I only remember him bringing home a duck once. He didn’t actually shoot it himself. One of his hunting buddies shot the duck but then got his Jeep stuck in the mud. Your dad used his Dodge pick up to pull the Jeep out of the mud. As thanks, the hunting buddy gave your dad a duck.