So, it happened.
I was outside feeding the wild Muscovy ducks that fly, it’s really more of hefted leap with wings, over the fence and in to my yard. The Dingo was inside. The door to the house was closed. The patio door to the backyard was open. The Dingo pushed enough on the house door and was instantly outside, with six ducks… thinking she can’t get to them.
I’m standing amongst the ducks. The Dingo is all ears and pupils alert. Looking at her and back at the ducks, all I can picture is carnage and feathers. Making the most primordial noises I can, the Dingo, in three bounces, charges the ducks.
They’re so slow and fat and have thus far not become aware of the dangers of the Dingo. Her lead prevents her from getting at them in one corner of the yard. She tries and tries and the ducks have learned they’re safe. So, having the Dingo all of the sudden in their space, the heavier males are Bambi-in-headlights stunned and the lighter females are up over the fence, “Peace out, motherfuckers!”
It takes a lot of effort for these ducks to get themselves off the ground.
Sounding like a caveman, I’m doing everything I can to prevent David Attenborough from magically appearing in my yard explaining the circle of life to a camera crew.
The Dingo and a male duck find themselves within centimeters of each other; her nose is practically touching his neck. I’m terrified she’s going to finally “get the duck” and am still vocalizing the sounds of my forever-dead relatives.
Dingo: Uh, what now? I didn’t plan this far ahead.
Duck: Yeah, hey, me either. I don’t know, but the food lady seems pretty pissed.
Dingo: Guess I should go inside?
No one died. The neighbors were probably wondering WTF. The ducks come back every day, multiple times. The Dingo still tries every day to get at them; her lead faithfully keeps them from certain death. Maybe she just wants to play, but every lizard she “plays” with winds up in pieces somewhere in my house.