If Shirley MacLaine is correct about all this reincarnation stuff (the jury is still out for me), I’d like to return as a duck. Of all the critters I have known and loved, I’d be hard pressed to find a happier animal.
The simplest gestures on our part are unfailingly met with boisterous enthusiasm. As part of morning farm chores, each morning we empty, rinse, and refill their plain plastic baby pool for them with fresh water. No big deal, right? Well, not from the viewpoint of a duck. You would think we had filled the pool with liquid gold (not the furniture polish, the mineral, ducks do not do housework which is another big plus for me as far as becoming one). Fresh water is greeted with glee beyond belief. They drink heartily. They dive and dunk and splash to their hearts’ content. Verbose and busy, every day is a party for a duck.
See? Put another chicken scratch in the pro column for duck reincarnation. I love parties. Just yesterday, we went to “The Buffalo Chip Saloon” in Cave Creek for the “Chicks with Picks” concert (enunciate the “P” carefully, otherwise you get weird looks). It was a free (if you don’t factor in the cost of beer) all day event featuring mostly independent female musicians. Julie Sinatra, the previously unknown-to-me spitting image and love child of Frank, performed, as did our neighbor Jessi Colter. It was a fun, early birthday celebration for me. The ducks would have been beside themselves.
The only con I can see in returning to this world as a duck is laying those gianormous eggs. The yolk alone is at least 2” across. And they lay them almost daily. I think that must at the least smart and I’m not good with pain. It makes me cry. Therefore, my one I-want-to-be-a-duck reincarnation request is to switch sexes and be a drake, nicer coloring, curly tail feather, and no egg laying.
Yup, that’s the ticket. Now if I could just figure out whom to give it to.