Quack

Who do they imagine I am? After all I am a duck. Admittedly, a duck dressed up as a punk. Apparently, I’m some font of ancient wisdom.

My owners talk to me as if I am one of them. How could I be? What race of creatures dresses up dogs in little coats and frilly skirts? Gives them bow ties and miniature Wellington boots? Takes them to have their hair blown dry and their toes and claws buffed? They buy them toys and ‘healthy’ treats. Even worse, they take them ‘walkies’ in designer bags or prams and pushchairs.

Odd. Very strange to lavish money on these surrogate offspring when ‘real’ children die: unfed, unloved and 'unpetted'.

Still, what do I know? I am a duck and my ancestors had their feet coated in tar so they could walk to cities to be sold at markets.

I should be grateful that I won’t end up as a Sunday roast. I won’t be fed until my liver almost bursts and is then served up as any form of foie gras. I won’t be platted up as duck a l'orange.

My life would be better if they didn’t try to make me eat all the vegetarian stuff they like. I long to swim on a river and get my feet wet and muddy. Above all, I want to gorge myself on fat plump worms pecked out by my very own beak. But c’est la via, as the French canards say.

I’d better quack a bit just to amuse them and reinforce their belief that I’m as wise as Pythia, the Oracle at Delphi.