Ducks are terrible liars.



Once upon a time in central Canada there was a herd of Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep. They spent the summers in a rather pleasant way; nibbling on the long grass, climbing the craggy peaks, high fiving each other on the forehead, chasing the ewes for no particular reason and generally loving their lives.

One day Ralph, the smartest of them all, began to wonder why all the ducks migrated to Arizona in the fall. So he struck up a conversation with a passing goose and asked, “Why do you all fly to Arizona every fall?”

The goose, who was not in a talkative mood, simply said, “Ask the ducks.”

Ralph began the long journey to the bottom of the canyon, and naturally the others followed along behind. At the bottom was a lake of clean blue water that was fed from a nearby glacier. The water was cold and good to drink, and the lake was filled with fish. After hours of carefully climbing down from his lofty perch Ralph reached the shore of the lake. He took a long drink from the cold water and after only a few minutes he felt refreshed from his arduous journey. Then he began to look around for a duck.

Marvin the duck was asleep in some tall grass on the edge of the lake. So Ralph carefully approached Marvin, in an effort not to startle him, and quietly asked the question that was on his mind.

Ducks are terrible liars; pretty much all of them. No one is sure why, it seems to be in their genes. Marvin told Ralph that ducks must, according to their religion, undertake a pilgrimage at least every other year to the place where their ancient religious leader, The Donald, first appeared to the masses. “The site of his appearance is also the source of all water and ducks need more water than anyone else, eh.” He went on to explain the each duck received a spiritual strengthening from the long flight and a new resolve to have funny hair and deposit their love droppings on building that were otherwise devoid of them.

Marvin also said the big hairless monkeys he called Canadaquacks followed the example of the ducks and many of them migrated to Arizona in the winter. He described vast numbers of Canadaquacks in giant steel wagons with noisy parts and seems to propel them across a vast system of cow trails that all led to Arizona.

“In Arizona the winters are warm; there are plenty of fish, plenty of bugs, eh. There are hundreds of lakes next to large lawns where the grass was well manicured by the Arizonaquacks”, he said. “The large lawns have much smaller vehicles traveling across them and sometimes the quacks use a stick to hit a little ball, then chase the ball, and hit it again, eh”.

Ralph wondered if the quacks ever tried to make trouble for the ducks.

“Never. They are too busy to pay attention to us.”

Ralph pondered all the duck had said and finally decided that if Arizona was such a wonderful place he should probably go there too. He was particularly happy about the idea of warm winters, lots of water, and beautiful grass lands that stayed green all winter.

So he and the other rams had a chat about the problem. Arizona was hundreds of miles away, far too far to simply walk. After serious discussion they decided the best way to make the journey was to find a Canadaquack that was going that way, and hitch a ride.

The cow trails the duck had spoken about were easy to find. They found a likely looking spot, stood on the cow trail and waited.

Mary Motley had no choice but to stop when she encountered the rams in the middle of the road. She paused for a moment, picked up her camera from the vacant passenger seat in her car, took a few snaps and then honked her horn in an effort to scare the rams off the road. They simply stood their ground and waited. She rolled down the window and gestured. Since rams have no fingers the salute she offered had no meaning to them, one way or the other. Then she stepped out of the car, which was towing a long trailer, did a few jumping jacks and screamed “Shoo”.

In his most polite manner Ralph said, “Misses we are on our way to Arizona and would like to borrow a ride. Since all roads lead to Arizona we presume you going in that direction, eh.”

Mary was, at first, startled to learn that wild animals, much less sheep, could speak Canadian. Her next thought was to wonder if the toddy she had for breakfast was too stiff. (‘Drink Canada Dry’ is not simply an advertising slogan. It is more like a lifestyle suggestion and Canadians are giving it one hell of a try.)

Mary made her living by importing cactus jelly and dead rattlesnakes for her cousin’s bar, where they were used to prove the manhood of a few lumberjacks who had nothing better to do. The long trailer was currently empty. She gave a moment’s thought to the notion that the TSA would have to xray a few, already naked sheep, decided she could circumvent that problem and simply walked to the back of the trailer. Then she threw the door open and gestured for the rams to get in.

The trip was long but uneventful. In due course the rams arrived in Gilbert Arizona, on the grounds of a convent run by the Little Sisters of St. Velcro. The rams marveled at the Spanish architecture, the tall skinny trees and finally found the source of all water.

Having made the pilgrimage they had nothing left to do. So they stood around looking for some ducks.

Ducks are terrible liars.