A bad day to be a duck

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.”