The duck wasn't moving, so I was trying to get my various hairs pointed in a socially acceptable direction. It was before school, somebody was in the bathroom, so I relegated myself to the hinterlands, the laundry room with its sink and mirror. My brother had been out duck hunting at dawn, had some success, and left his duck on top of the dryer to deal with later. As I carefully arranged my naturally curly hair in some fashion or another, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. Duck movement.
"Hey! This duck is alive," I shouted to the rest of the family.
No response. My dad and brother were avid hunters and knew that sometimes birds have a little bit of movement after death. That's what they thought I was seeing.
What I was seeing was a duck whose head was up and alert and looking at me. Blinking. "Hey, this duck is alive and I'm not kidding." My voice was going up, in both decibels and in octaves. The duck sits up.
But then, you could hear me in the next county. And then the duck gets up and takes a little walk around the top of the dryer. I'm pretty much screaming by this point.
My dad, my brother, and my mother, with their toothbrushes still in their mouths and brushes still in their hair, show up in the laundry room with me, just in time to see the duck take flight in a long, slow loop around the laundry room, and then watch me open the back screen door, and let the duck fly out and away.