12.14.17, 7:36am: A Chorus of Squeaky Toys.

There was a new herd of ducks in the yard today.

It being first thing in the morning and me without contacts or glasses, I thought it was a gathering of female mallards; there were like 15, which is odd because they usually only show up in a pair.

They like to hang out just them, want nothing to do with Big Poppa and his flock of mohawked Muscovies and fly off the second they see me.

Before heading outside to see what was going on, I grabbed my glasses and found it was a gang of ducks I haven’t ever seen. A quick Google search “brown Florida ducks that squeak” later, I learned they’re Black-Bellied Whistling (or Tree) Ducks.

They sound like dog toys; they don’t quack.

Dingo: Lady, I really need to pee.

Me: Sorry.

*goes outside holding the dog by her collar*


Me: You all are going to want to fly away.

The Dingo was now on her hind legs bouncing. A few ducks flew away, the remainder were dazed; tiny squeaks of WTF. I inched closer with my weapon of mass chaos and the rest took off. Making sure everyone was out of the yard, I let Sissy go; also making sure I wasn’t in the way of her lead. It doesn’t matter that all of the ducks were no longer in the yard, she still has to charge the fence as fast as possible; being part Greyhound, it’s damn quick. She has taken both Weez and I out at least once with that thing, but she has to be on it or pandemonium will ensue.

Heading back into the house, I learned they’re called Whistling or Tree ducks for a reason. All of them serenaded me from the trees.

It was a chorus of squeaky toys.



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