A long busy day at the computer, working on Wizard’s Holiday. But it was punctuated by a couple of cases of the Universe repeating itself.
(1) I’m finishing up a chapter, typing at fairly high speed, when I hear a sound that we’ve learned to think of as Mr. Squeak’s “Look What I’ve Got For You!” cry: “yow-YOW?! Yow-YOW!” I go to see what it is, and find that he’s already brought it into the front hall for me. It’s a duck, about half grown, lying there looking very flat. Another duck. (Though the thought has since occurred to me: is this perhaps the same duck as the duckling Goodman brought in some weeks back? Are we perhaps dealing, here, with the Stupidest Duck in Wicklow?)
Poke the duck gently. Duck blinks. Okay…not a dead duck: just shocky. Let’s find out how shocky.
We have a routine for this kind of thing, now. Open downstairs bathroom, run water into sink, insert duck, close door, bribe cat with tuna to forget about duck. Call Peter to fetch Duck Repatriation Box. After ten minutes or so, open bathroom to evaluate condition of duck and devise nursing plan. Duck now behind toilet, eyeing practitioner with some malevolence. Nursing evaluation: Client is suitable for release to home environment.
Insert duck into Repatriation Box, put on boots, go out with Peter to pond to repatriate duck. Duck is released into reeds, sits there somewhat dazed for a moment, then skedaddles off through the reeds into the deeper water. Good. Stay out there, duck, I think. At least until I finish this chapter. Turn around and walk back home 
accompanied by three cats demanding to know what we’re doing, and a fourth cat indignant about having his duck taken away. ((Note to self: sodium pentothal faces no competition from canned tuna as a memory-dulling drug.) On arriving home, retire Duck Repatriation Box to garbage, as it has been well seasoned with Duck Poop. (Wel, if Mr. Squeak dragged me across the field, and then someone shut me in the bathroom and after that put me in a box and hauled me crosscountry, probably my underwear would need changing too.)
So much for that. However:
(2) Return to computer, finish work. Knock off around 10:30 PM. Desire for food emerges, bigtime. Go to freezer, rummage around. Find small sirloin steak. Plan emerges: grill sirloin, saute’ onions, deglaze pan with balsamic vinegar and red wine, make roesti using two-day-old boiled potatoes on counter (the two days give the starch time to turn to sugar, which helps the texture of the roesti). Eat. Yum, yum.
Defrost steak, remove from wrapping, clip small freezer-burned part off. Go into living room to do something for a moment. Peter goes in to get phone to call his mom…and calls me instead. “Uh…your steak is gone!”
Well, not gone, exactly. Half of it is on the floor. The rest of it is inside the Cat Goodman; yea, even he of the sunblock-anointed ears. Goodman is presently outside, looking through the cat door and trying to assess how pissed off we are.
Nothing I can do at this point but laugh and defrost another steak. The rest of the meal goes forward as planned. Around the time I sit down to it, Goodman oozes back in through the cat door, sits down in the middle of the kitchen floor, and starts washing with a “Not My Fault, It Menaced Me And I Was Forced To Eat It In Self-Defense” expression. I have my glass of wine and regard his insouciance with amusement. “You little sod,” I say. “How would you like it if I ate your food?”
The Cat Goodman looks up at me. But you wouldn’t. Hahahahahaha….
I give him a superior look and drink my wine.
Just another day in Paradise…
