This taxidermied creature flew into my life years ago, and by “flew” I mean a co-worker found him curbside in the neighborhood, destined for the landfill. Instead, the duck became the pride of my cubicle.
I never named him over the years, and for that I feel guilty.
Duck, I now dub thee “Mike.”
About six months ago my next-door cubicle mate, who always hated Mike, decided to dust the top of our co-cubicle. She “accidentally” knocked Mike from his perch and broke his neck.
Mike remained, scarred and disfigured, perched atop my file cabinet and gazing over my shoulder as I typed Pulitzer Prize-worthy blog posts such as this one.
Yesterday, a crew arrived to replace a broken window near my desk (don’t ask) and in the process of moving Mike, a big clump of his breast became dislodged. His time had come.
So goodbye Mike. May you fly to that great cubicle in the sky, where ducks murmur their soft quacks while gazing upon the Hemingways, Twains, and Steinbecks as they gloriously pen their celestial prose.
