Duck Soap - feathered drama in my backyard

Happy Independence Day, dear readers. May your day be filled with joy and good humor as mine will be.
 I say that as I’m about to launch a new career. I can just feel it in these autumnal bones that now is my chance to break into Hollywood.
 I’ve decided a screenplay is in my future, and in advance of the accolades I just know are coming, I would like to thank the Lord, my parents, my darling and devoted husband Sir, my superlatively supportive Madam and Beau, my gorgeous friends, my aunt’s cousin’s butcher, and of course, you my faithful readers, as I know I wouldn’t have had the stamina without you.
I’m hoping Tim Burton will agree to direct, as I am absolutely positive Johnny Depp will appear in my epic. It’s a pity Hitchcock is no longer around as I am certain he would have jumped at the chance to be a ludicrously paid consultant.
It’s still in its working-title stage you understand. I know “The Birds” has been taken, and “The Ducks” sounds all a bit lame. Possibilities abound however: “Duckrose Place,” “Duckton Place,” “All My Ducklings,” “General Ducktipal,” “Duck Street Blues,” “Guiding Duck,” “One Duck to Live” – oh, I’m telling you they’re rocketing around my head so I may just have to take an aspirin, a cup of tea and a good lie down.
 You know I feed my local critters in my garden, and last year saw the arrival of my first pair of ducks – Howard and Gladys. But one day Gladys arrived sans Howard, and she looked so folorn at the obvious loss of her mate I just sat on the deck and cried.
But this year we’ve obviously adopted a new generation – possibly Howard and Gladys offspring – and yet again we’ve named them.
Enter the cast of my new movie: Howard and Gladys (Mark II), Harvey and Dolores, and the gay young blades, Lance and Peter.
Every morning I open the drapes in the kitchen and look over my vernal pastoral palate and watch my very own personal soap opera evolve.
Enter Howard and Gladys. I know this to be them, as both are quite hale and hearty. Pecking away at the seed, blissfully unaware of any challenge, in fly Harvey and Dolores. I know this to be them, as Harvey is a bit gimpy in the left foot, and I feel his pain. But what’s this? Harvey rather resents his table already having been taken and goes into Large Duck mode to scare off the encroachers.
Well – Large Duck mode is not quite accurate, as I’ve discovered in my new interest of animal husbandry, that an Attack Duck actually makes himself smaller and more streamlined by waddling in a most aggressive manner, all the while with his neck and beak as close as possible to the ground, and therefore his quarry’s ass.
 Limping manfully (duckfully?), Harvey manages to snag one of Howard’s tail feathers, and I’m telling you, the ensuing melee would make church matrons across the nation blush. Not satisfied with having seen Howard off the premises, he then turns on poor Gladys who takes off in fright.
Not to be thwarted, however, she returns for another round, but Harvey will have none of it. He takes off at a duck’s version of a rapid vacuum cleaner, and Gladys rather fumbles her takeoff and lands pretty unceremoniously in a heap. She now is gimpy and both limp around the joint looking like they’ve both gone a half-round with Mike Tyson. Dolores meanwhile – utter unfeeling cow that she is – is still feeding away at the seed. Gladys has retreated to the fainting couch.
Enter Johnny Depp. Oh, was that my fantasy coming out there? I do apologize.
Enter Lance (off-screen, trumpet fanfare – da dad da daaaa), our presumably caped hero. Both Howard and Harvey know when their number is up, and retreat, en masse, to revive Gladys. Dolores is left trembling and oh so vulnerable to the charms of Lance.
But wait! Who is this peeking over the crest of the hill. It’s Peter. Dolores, knowing there is now no hope, sadly waddles westward as Lance and Peter live it up at the buffet.
Sir has been ever so helpful in my quest. He has become affectionately known as the Duck Whisperer and has been seen furtively creeping about around dusk with a handful of seed.
Dolores has been quite chummy with my Catering Department and will come as close as 42 inches for a feed. Harvey will have none of it though and would rather starve than take a crumb from that apparent crumb of my husband.
Even as I speak, Sir is trying for the position of Animal Wrangler on the crew, and I’m pretty sure as he sits out on our grassy knoll, no doubt being fed upon by our local mosquitoes, he will get the job.
So there are the bones of my screen play. I really do think it’s a winner. Now all I need is to cast the others. Dolores just cries out for Joan Collins, but I fear she’s a little long in the beak. Bob Newhart is a natural for Howard, but I’m at a bit of a loss for the others.
Hang on – I have the title!
“Ducks of our Lives” – or should it be “Days of our Ducks.”
Like I said, it’s a work in progress.