Quack

Paul had to make a trip into Peterborough on Saturday so I asked him if he'd mind going up towards Lakefield to Merrylynd Farm to stock up on grain for flour. We called ahead, but as seems to be the way, there was no answer. He went anyway.

Saturday was a horrible day - snowy and blustery. He arrived at the farm and spoke with a gentleman at the house. There was no one at the mill and the man wasn't able to help Paul with his quest. He left empty handed.

On the way back down to Peterborough, a flock of ducks flew down in front of the van. Most of them then flew off, however, Paul was pretty sure that he'd hit one. As he continued driving, he searched the faces in oncoming traffic. Surely, there would be a reaction if there was a duck butt sticking out of the grill.

Once in Peterborough, he parked at his next stop and took a look at the front of the van. The grill was broken and inside was an intact but very dead duck. Good Lord. I swear this could only happen to this man...that I willingly wed. No wonder some people call me daffy.

Looks peaceful, doesn't it? The poor thing. Paul called around for a replacement grill and it's not going to be cheap. He then suggested fixing it with duck tape. (I know, I know.) Currently, the duck's chilling in the freezer. And Bev, at work, called Paul a hunter/gatherer. That quacks me up.