The secret life of ducks

The
Catholic Weekly
Online

Sydney
22 August 2004

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The secret life of ducks

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The secret life of ducks

By M Regina Cram

There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just spit it out. I sleep with a stuffed yellow duck named Goober. Yes, I’m serious.

Goober is adorable in a homely sort of way, with beady eyes and a sprig of hair on the top of his pointy head that makes him look dorky but sweet. No matter what anyone says, I think Goober is awesome, even if he isn’t the brightest crayon in the box.

Goober’s life began in the Easter basket of my teenage daughter Meredith a few years back. One day when Meredith wasn’t looking, Goober sneaked across the hall to my room and never went back. Personally I think he’s much happier with me. Don’t get Meredith started on that topic.

After Goober moved in with me, I tried to give the poor guy a better name. You know, something cool like Melvin or Stumpy or McCloskey. But no. That girl overheard my plan and she threatened me. My own kid threatened me! Meredith said she’d take Goober back if I changed his name. I don’t think that’s legal because it would be like undoing an adoption. Besides, Goober would be devastated. But Meredith wouldn’t budge. That girl gets her stubbornness from her father.

To answer your question, no, my husband is not thrilled about sharing his wife with a stuffed duck, no matter how adorable he is (the duck, not the husband). Personally, I think I’m a bargain. I mean, it’s not as if I carry a Barney doll with me.

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