The only scary creature NOT in my pond: The duck-filled-catty-pus

 

Over the past thirty years, the pond behind our house has evolved from Pacific to puddle...sometimes puny, sometimes protuberant. A savage habitat of snapping turtles and snakes. A haven for honking geese and diving ducks. Blackberry bushes act as a brutal barricade...blood will be drawn in exchange for access to this baby bayou.

"I finally got around to moving the duck blind," Brad reported. Once situated in the middle island, the waning water deserted the spit of land. Targeted fowl would need to be enticed to waddle a wee bit. If we were lucky, Captain Quack Sparrow might mistake the blind for a treasure chest. Duck Vader might want to share a joke:  "Two storm troopers walk into a bar. The third one ducks." 

I wandered down to take a look...and was immediately entranced.

Perched pond-side, within easy Amy-reach, Brad's shotgun structure resembled a little swamp slip. "This is amazing," I squealed, quickly climbing inside. Brad, pleased by my unexpected interest, reminded me of my instrumental role in its original construction. I was baffled. "I have no memory of building this," I told him. Of course, the trauma related to such an activity could have eradicated it from my brain. "I remember helping (hindering) you haul it out to the island decades
ago," I answered, shuddering from the recollection. Muck-deep, fearfully alert for an appearance from the Leech-ness Monster. Certain that I would be permanently suctioned to the bottom of the pond. Valuing each and every one of my ten, tiny toes should a Goodyear-tire-sized snapper develop a sudden craving for one or two little piggies. We had just learned that a family of Eastern Massasauga rattlesnakes had taken up a waterside residence by the pond.  I was, perhaps, not as enthusiastic about helping my husband as I should have been. There was a great deal of swearing accompanying this task. Scared swearing on one end..."encouraging" (exasperated) expletives on the other.

Before Brad knew it, we were picnicking in his duck blind. Chairs were purchased and hauled down. "My knees touch the front of the blind," Brad commented. "I know!" I squealed, "So cozy!" The turtles were baffled. Dozens of heads periscoped from the water to wonder what the hiddey-hey we were doing. Brad was so embarrassed but I reassured him that no one cared what a bunch of reptiles think. I pried a 5-gallon bucket away from my husband's hoarded pile of a hundred or more...to fill with citronella candles, mosquito repellent, and a lighter...so that it could double as a table for our romantic pond-side seating.

We ordered a pizza and carried it down to our magical get-away.

I stuffed myself into the three-foot-by-three-foot squared entrance hole...then shimmied over the two chairs...straddling the 5-gallon bucket and lightly bumping my head on the low, wood roof. I settled into my little chair (careful to tuck in my knees a bit) and sighed happily. "Isn't this perfect?" I asked Brad who, to be fair, had lacked the imagination to view his duck-blind as a sea-side resort restaurant. A chipmunk raced across the back of the blind. "This is incredible!" I exclaimed. Brad, having shimmied in after me, was gamely attempting to balance our pizza on his knees which were braced against the front of the blind. The turtles had suddenly adjusted their attitudes now that the possibility of pizza crusts had presented itself. They all but put out a "Welcome" banner. Inspired by the Chisholm Trail, they circled the shells to present us with a fun but clear target in which to aim our offerings. 

"You weren't this excited about the deer stand," Brad observed as we gazed out over the water.

I considered this comment as fish rose from the water.

"Can we move it to the pond?" I asked.

Brad wasn't really fawn of that particular i-deer.