If you’ve been following what my friend Stacey has dubbed DuckGate 2013, you know that I wrote a column that preceded the duck drama in my neighborhood, although to be fair, this is Gulfport, y’all, and that duck drama was just waiting to happen.
Anyway, last night we met the rest of what my friend Jon (lovingly, I hope) dubbed “the Algonquin Ya-Yas” at Sandbar Bill’s behind the Bon-Aire. We gathered for Leah’s birthday, to watch the sunset and to celebrate new jobs and cars and life in general. Oh, and to give me no small amount of shit about the duck stories.
“So what’s going on, exactly, with these ducks?” Leah asked. “I see your Facebook posts, and I find myself following along. If it was anybody but you, I would swear they were making it up.”
So I gave her the abbreviated version, except there really isn’t one, so I gave her the long version. When we got to the point where the chief of police called me and said, “We caught a duck-napper last night” and I responded with, “Are you fucking with me?”, Leah just started to laugh.
“Yeah, that’s the point where you realize, ‘this is my life’ and you either walk away, or embrace it,” she commented.
This morning, Leah found two ducks in her pool. She sent me a text message accompanying this photo:
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| They heard Leah had connections. |
“They came by because they heard I knew the famous duck journalist.”
I feel as though there may be a lot of this in my future.
