DUCK, DUCK, FOOT

I am enjoying a few days of relaxation and recharging with family on Paugus Bay in New Hampshire. Even though it's still considered in-season, the place isn't too crowded. Of course, we are having the worst weather of any recent summer. It has been raining -- downpouring -- off and on since May. It is hard to fathom that there could be any more moisture whatsoever in the sky. This weather may mean less people on the shore, but it does mean more ducks.

That's right; I said it: DUCKS.

They are everywhere. To top it off, the ducks are bold and cavalier. They are also cheeky and forward. They come right up to people and stand there, doing the duck equivalent of webbed-foot stomping, completely ignoring the fact that humans could trip over one and send it to the Duck Morgue. 

I do my best to shoo these feathered demons away. I'm sitting in a beach chair, trying to read, and watching the fiends come closer to my toes. The tenacity needed to ward off the ducks is nearly as strong as their tenacity to bother people. This may well end in a standoff.

Later, I am sitting in a tall bar chair on the outside deck, enjoying lunch and a beverage with family and friends. My feet, crossed at the ankles and perched on a chair rung, seem safe from mallard marauders. Until, that is, up to the moment that one of those ducks nips at my left heel. 

I yelp a little and pull my legs toward my sternum. It doesn't really hurt, but it's darn irritating. I spend the next few days keeping my appendages close to my inner core. I am on constant vigil while reading, while at the tiki bar, and, to be honest, everywhere except inside my room at the inn.

Look, folks. If something is going to be doing any foot nibbling, I'd prefer a little polite conversation, possibly dinner, first.