Just Ducky

Meet Duck.

Duck is, as you might expect, not a duck. Duck is a cat. Duck was not responsible for his name and so very much requests that any comments, complaints or laughter be directed at his staff who continues to call him by the rather ridiculous monicker that he would much prefer to shed like last season's coat. Duck feels much more like a Percival or Harrington. Maybe a Spot. But most definitely a Duck. He has always found this idiotic tendency for humans to name this with names that are inappropriate puzzling and, well, idiotic.

All in all, Duck has to say that his staff, who appears to go by the name Michael, is rather dim. Aside from the completely awful choice of name, Michael also buys the wrong flavour of food (Duck likes liver but Michael continues to buy beef or salmon), he persists in trying to rub Duck's belly when that is the last thing Duck wants, and he does not even understand polite conversation.

As a side note, Michael is rather sure that Duck loves his name, adores beef and salmon, will learn to appreciate belly rubs like a good cat, and is constantly sharing his appreciation for Michael's good care of him.

Needless to say, communication between the two is less than stellar.

Today is, all things considered, a fairly average day. Duck's ears flick back and he scowls at Michael as the man stumbles from bed straight for the room with the porcelain fountain that, from the smell, Michael continues to use as a litter box. Duck finds this rather rude and has tried to inform Michael of it any number of times, but so far the idiot persists in his behaviour and Duck is still working on just how best to prevent him. He had come up with a rather genius idea but after putting a well-aimed and -timed swipe into action Michael had taken to closing the door in Duck's face. The screams, however, had been enough to make Duck fluff his fur in pride for a whole morning. Despite that, Duck had stopped getting out of bed with Michael at that point. He likes his nose as it is and having the door shut in his face threatens to flatten his nose even more.

Duck is a rather noble beast. That is a polite way of saying that he has gained weight and the vet suggested on the last visit that he be put on the "light" food. Calling it "light" seemed typically human to Duck. It was no lighter than the regular food in any way. If it was intended to make him lose weight it was, to this point, not working well. Duck simply ate more of it to achieve the same full feeling.

When the bathroom door finally opens, Duck lifts his head, twitches the end of his tail, and lazily opens his eyes to watch Michael's morning attempts at blundering through life. Michael is not a morning person. Nor is Duck, neither a "morning" nor a "person." This situation tended to result in Michael stumbling around the apartment, banging into door frames, uttering words that Duck was quite sure had no actual meaning beyond profanity, and being late most mornings.

This morning is no exception and Michael had nearly trips attempting to pull on his pants, spills coffee on his clean shirt, nicks himself shaving, and most importantly, nearly forgets to leave his cereal bowl - with a few spoonfuls of milk - in an accessible place for Duck. It is only with some insistent meowing and rubbing - not to mention a very careful application of claws - that Michael is reminded to pacify the cat.

Then the door slams shut, then opens again quickly and the jangling of keys and thump of a briefcase is followed by another slam of the door. The door opens again and Duck watches as the sleeve of Michael's jacket is caught in the door as he attempts to close it again. Profanities filter through as the door opens just slightly and shuts, the lock finally snicking shut with an air of finality.

Pause. Wait.

Ok, Michael is finally gone. Duck hops down from the sofa and pads into the drinking-fountain room to investigate. His whiskers ruffle and ears flatten at the complete lack of proper cleaning skills of humans. Not to mention aiming. Disgust is evident in every fiber of Duck's being as he stalks back out to investigate the water in the bowl Michael insists on placing next to the platter of cardboard "kibbles" Michael keeps trying to tell Duck are food. Stale. The water was usually stale. Duck had tried to point out to Michael that they made running fountains now for cats but Michael had showed no interest in the advertisement Duck had patted over and over, simply moving Duck from on top of the magazine and turning the page with a tsking sound.

Now, just what will Duck do to occupy his day?

 

The End

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