"Mallard duck," she said, just before she placed the binoculars back down on the car hood. "No doubt about it."

This was the third time she had drug my out to this place to observe ducks. Or, in her words, to "administer some duck justice."

"Do we really need to be here this early in the morning," I asked. "I didn't sleep very well."

"This is when they're most active," she told me. "This is when they feed most, and that's when they pick on him."

"Him" was a duck with, so she said, a clipped wing of some sort. one that couldn't fly or couldn't fly well. She told me that she had observed this specimen being bullied, and wanted to save him from the other ducks if she could.

Who knew I'd ever fall in love with a hero of opressed ducks?

"There," she said, "I can see him. Just behind that mallard I pointed out to you. The mallard is heading for him!" She said. "Our goal is to row out and collect the injured duck. You distract the others with this."

She slung a bag of bread into my hand, and drug me to the boat. In a moment we were rowing our way onto the man made pond.

"This place is disgusting," I said, knocking green slime off of my oar. "BP left water in better condition than this."

"That isn't funny," she scolded, directing me to paddle faster.

As we arrived a few ducks scattered but the victim and villian were still floating near by. I opened the bread bag, and was soon swarmed by ducks, flying near my head, getting into the boat. It honestly freak me out. i panicked and through the bread out into the pond. The ducks chased it.

I turned to apologize, but saw her cradling the victim. She was smiling.

It was true high heroism on a ducky scale. I guess...