Three Muskaducks Meet a Troubled Art in the Park

The three of us have been through so much drama together (“All for one and one for all,” and all that), that it’s been most pleasant to find such a nice park in southeast Texas to spend the next few eons of our retirement.  It’s one of the nicest places we've found since the deranged son of the evil spy Milady de Winter bewitched us into immortal mallard drakes back in France toward the end of the 17^th century.

You can read about those days in Alexandre’s books about us, but today we have new lives and new stories to tell. And many mortals to whom it is our sacred duty to pass on the wisdom of our life experiences.

I should introduce myself. I’m Porthos – always was and always shall be the one with the greatest lust for life. And the best dressed of the Musketeers, which explains my superior appearance even in these Muskaduck bodies -- the deeper luster to my green head and the more pronounced blue speculum on each wing back near my neatly coifed D.A.

That’s me taking the lead in this lifelike daguerreotype...

The gentleman I’m going to tell you about captured this remarkable image in a strange, very small device that allowed him to share it with us instantly. I hope he’ll post it and tag us, as I wasn't in such good light in that earlier image where he first introduced us on his Facebook page back in April.

Aramis, although he thinks himself religious, is bringing up the rear, distracted as usual by a hen wading by. He has to be careful with that kind of behavior now that we each have our own Facebook accounts, and are even learning to quack on Twitter. Athos, standing between us striking his usual, self-important pose, will strive as always to keep us both in line.

But I digress. We were enjoying our peaceful, uneventful immortality in the park when we came across the gentleman I spoke of sitting forlornly on a park bench by the brook. Apparently catching a glimmer of who we really are, he regaled us with a tale of woe, beseeching our counsel. Although at first it paled in comparison to the dangers and adventures of our lives as Musketeers, he was most earnest in his distress, saying he desperately needed to get “closure” on something, whatever that means.

It’s been extremely rare in recent centuries for a mortal man or woman to engage us in this way, so when they do we drop everything, get our heads up out of the water, and pay attention. Besides, he touched on a subject dear to our hearts since our transformation – bird watching!

The poor downcast chap was quite distinguished looking, hair going white at the temples (and beyond), but looking not a day over 50. Athos said he reminded him of d’Artagnan, and we agreed. None of us believed he was technically retirement age like us. He said he was, but still had to work anyway. Sad. After dispensing with the small talk, he became grave once again, and we climbed up on the bank to listen intently.

It seems his lady wanted a bluebird house erected in their backyard. They had a garden that was already something of a sanctuary for many species of birds, who ate and bathed there in an artificially contrived nature setting of fake fountains and commercial feeding structures that they stocked with stale seeds from the store.

Cardinals, chickadees, hummingbirds, occasional woodpeckers, and even rare, green or golden colored migratory finches had been visiting, and that was fine with him. But one day his lady, who could hear high-pitched sounds in a range that was inaccessible to him, heard – and saw – something new. A male bluebird perched on their fence surveying their garden! She was so excited, because one had never come to their yard before. And one of her good friends had told her how ethereal it was to host returning families of bluebirds every year in her backyard.

Our new friend confided to us that his first thoughtless response, which he had been unable to stifle, had been, “Ethereal, schlamereal!” He shared with us how he pictured the work it would take to mount an unsightly bluebird house on a 10-ft pole, dig a deep hole in the middle of their nicely manicured lawn on a hot summer day, pour Sacrete (we had trouble understanding that part but eventually did), and probably never actually get a bluebird family to live there anyway.

Frankly, we were getting dreadfully bored (and hungry). This was not a problem worthy of our caliber of advice. He must have seen it in our downcast eyes that were drifting back to the rippling brook, because he stood up, started pacing back and forth on the hiking path, and said, “But that’s not at all what I wanted your advice on.”  And then he ran off, quite upset.

We all looked at one another (all for one, remember), as if to say, “This dude is a nut case.”  That turned out to be mostly true, but not for the reasons we were thinking so far. He returned to our park the next day, more composed, and finished his story. So I’ll tell you all I know in my next post to this blog (which we owe entirely to the troubled chap, who we came to know as Art, as you’ll see).

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