THE DEMISE OF HOMER
By
Joseph Orost
As
often as the case, parents usually succumb to the pleadings of their children
and buy baby chicks, ducks or some farm animal not knowing at the time how much
trouble it will be to raise them.
So it was with me. I had
bought three newly hatched baby ducks at the Englishtown Auction in New Jersey
for my little daughter, Jeannie.
She raised them in an orange crate covered with plastic film which she
lowered or folded back depending on the weather
conditions.
The
yellow-feathered Chirpers grew into white-feathered Quackers becoming pets which
roamed around the yard. They were
large, husky and healthy. It was a
surprise to me when they started to fly since these were the domesticated kind
and were not supposed to.
Of
course, each duck had a name. The largest grew to
be as big as a turkey and w
as named Homer. Homer’s takeoffs were shaky to say the
least. He would hug the ground
until he got up enough ground speed to climb. Then he would soar like a hawk. His landings were much smoother until
touchdown at which time his substitute for retrorockets was the vigorous
flapping of his wings which always brought on a cloud of
feathers.
One
day on takeoff he headed across the road into a collision course with a speeding
automobile. I had looked up just in
time to observe the tragedy and hear the sound of a shattering front headlight
and Homer’s subsequent dull, listless thud to the ground. The irate driver stopped his car and
headed towards me ready to engage in hostilities. He seemed to want to say that I should
lock up my dangerous creatures which are a menace to navigation.
But
Jeannie stopped him in his tracks with her loud scream. “You killed Homer.” She immediately emoted with a shower of
tears. Not prepared for this, the
stunned driver’s face changed like a chameleon from wrath to sympathy. He clumsily apologized to her again and
again the best he knew how and uneasily backed out of the situation as quick as
possible driving away in the (now forgotten) damaged car.
I
fetched a spade and Jeannie tenderly carried the remains of Homer to the back
yard for burial. By this time she
had calmed down until the neighbor came over to see what
happened.
“You’re
not going to bury that big duck are you?
Give him to me!” This
started her off again. “You’re
going to eat Homer?” She
cried. More screams and more
wailing.
Finally I calmed her
down and assured her that Homer would get a decent burial. And we proceeded to give Homer his due
respects and all the while I was thinking, “Two more to go.”