#229 Quack

by Alyson Hilbourne

Two hours after we returned from the petting zoo, Quack moved in.

“Eggs no,” three-year-old Simon said at teatime. “Quack no like.”

My husband and I exchanged glances.

Who was Quack?

Quack turned out to be a moveable feast, rather like Easter.

“Him’s big,” we were told when there was no room for anyone on the sofa, except Quack and Simon.

“Him’s gotta go,” muttered my husband, relegated to the chair with a crick neck view of the television.

“Him’s little,” was Simon’s verdict another day, when Quack fitted in his pocket so as not to be left behind.

Quack, besides not eating eggs, required his own chair at meals, needed the best view of the television, and wanted the hall light on at night. He also needed consulting on everything the family did, and had vigorous opinions.

When Simon discovered feathers seeping from his duvet, Quack refused to sleep in something akin to torture his species.

“Peking… a l’orange…?” my husband muttered, “it’s gotta go.”

I dug out blankets to keep Quack happy.

Next morning my husband arrived at breakfast his eyes red and clutching a handkerchief.

“Aaaaaachoooo!” We started in alarm.

“Allergies.” He winked at me and dropped a handful of white feathers on the breakfast table where they settled on the marmalade and the blue plates.

“Feathers. Aaaachoooo!”

Simon was subdued.

Later he announced, “Quack gone.”

“Thank heaven,” said my husband.

“Who’s that?” I asked, peering at the space Simon was protecting on the sofa.

“Oink…”