Do you want to see my duck?
The picture doesn't do little Ethan justice. He is hideous. My mastery of photography has somehow concealed the roughly 4 x 4 inch patch of skin on his back which is completely exposed and has no feathers whatsoever. While I also tried to get the "scratch and sniff" button on this blasted computer in working order, it fails me at the moment and you are not able to whiff the rancid odor that is his essence. He smells like meat, like raw, butcher-block meat. Having spent more time in wet meat markets over the past seven months than I care to recall, the scent of li'l Ethan, quite frankly, makes me want to hurl the eight cups of rice I ate today, because it reminds me of that time when a WHOLE PIG SKIN slammed against my left side as a meat-market-pig-skin-carrier was taking it to his booth. I still won't wear the shorts I had on that day.
So my duck is smelly, mange-y (you didn't think ducks could even have mange, but they can, and I have the proof), and furthermore, his heart beats at nine thousand beats per minute because he spent every waking moment of his 26-day life in a quiet rice field until today. Today he is in a basket and constantly eyed by Pogie, the dog at my house who is starved and kicked daily. Side story: Pogie remains suspicously alive in spite of the fact that my host family claims he had rabies once and that he used to have positively male identifying characteristics which have since disappeared, who really knows how. Anyway, continuing: Pogie loves Ethan in the way that I love a good piece of deep-fried Key Lime pie. Meanwhile, Ethan loves Pogie in the way that I love a good heaping plate of Crisco with crawling scorpions on top, and naturally Ethan freaks out and tries to rattle his cage, thinking that all 1.2 pounds of him can snap the bamboo container in half. Poor Ethan hasn't figured out that his 1.2 pounds of effort have no effect other than to make his heart nearly explode.
He is a fighter, though, and come Sunday (Philippine time), he will be safe on Himokilan with only no food and water to contend with.
That being said, he's only a fighter until Thanksgiving, when I've decided to sacrifice him for the sake of my American friends who want a good killin' come Thursday the 24th. His fate is sealed, you can't talk me out of it.
