The Catch & Release Program

Hey guys,

Tomorrow, I’ll be guest blogging over at TJ Bennett’s place. http://tjbsopinion.blogspot.com/

And I’ll be blogging about … “What a woman really wants.” So make sure you pop over and learn what some hot looking bad boy, named Calvin, taught me about romance. TJ is also giving away a fabulous Valentine’s Day giveaway of a Romance Roundup Gift Basket of autographed books. So pop over to check out the contest. See ya there!

CC

I think I’ve told ya’ll that my inability to avoid the weird/downright bizarre situations is hereditary. Seriously, crap just happens to me and my family. My mom really did lose her teeth on Continental Airlines, and I swear she accidentally stole a car. And the bomb story about my dad is true, I swear it! I don’t know why, but these things happen to us. Like the time I came within an inch of being arrested for being an illegal alien while crossing the border from New Mexico to Texas--never mind I’m blond and green-eyed. Or the time I got caught holding a bag of weed by the police. I was innocent on both counts.

But this blog isn’t about me. Nope. Today, I’m gonna share a story about my son. Poor guy. Of course, I think the duck is really the one I should be offering my sympathies to.

You have to know that my son is an animal lover. I can’t even begin to tell you the number of injured animals we’ve taken in. Today, I have a rabbit because someone at my son's employment was going to make stew out of the domesticated, but stray hare who had mistaken the plant store as an all you can eat buffet. When my son worked at the feed store he brought home a pet chicken that someone dropped off. He wasn’t about to let Ramon take it home because it would have been de-feathered and deep fried. So we found the pet chicken a home at a private school that boarded farm animals—thank God neighborhood regulations refused to let us keep it, or I would have a chicken keeping the rabbit company.

Kittens, dogs, turtles, birds, and then there was the caged raccoon that he bought home in my husband’s car. Have you ever smelled caged raccoon? That stench doesn’t go away for a long, long time. But this story isn’t about him bringing home the raccoon or that stench.

A couple of weeks ago, my son went fishing. He bought himself some worms and went to a local pond. Sitting on the banks, a group of ducks came up. One duck that my son named Ol’ Frank was especially friendly. Now according to my son, Ol’ Frank was . . . well . . . old. He sort of looked gray around the bill area. Son took a liking to Frank and no doubt about it, Frank took a liking to my son’s worms.

Every few minutes my son would toss the ol’ guy a worm. Then after something snagged my son’s bait, he pulled his reel out and baited his hook. Before he could pick up the pole and toss it back in, Ol’ Frank spotted the worm.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

Frank was hooked, running away, dragging my son’s pole behind him. Son felt terrible. He grabbed his pocket knife, chased down the duck and pole and cut the line. He tried to convince himself that the duck would be okay, but poor Frank had started running around in circles, quacking to the duck gods, with a hook in his mouth.

Remembering that the duck was old and could die if he stopped eating, Son manned up. He knew he had to get the hook out.

He chased the duck, in circles, finally caught the very upset, unhappy fowl with a fishing wire hanging from its mouth and brought him back to his tool box. Now, Frank wasn’t too keen on being picked up. He started quacking up a storm, flapping his wings to hell and back and feathers were flying everywhere. Son sat down on the grass, locked the pissed off bird between his legs, and tried to figure out how he was gonna get the job done.

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as telling the poor bird to open wide. Son finally gets the duck’s month open, saw the hook had gone completely through the poor duck’s tongue. To say Frank is unhappy is an understatement. Son was trying to be gentle, trying not to cause a scene, but that’s hard not to do when you have a squawking duck locked between your legs, your hand in his mouth, and the feathers are raining down all around you. Son was sure if Frank had been talking English, there would have been a bunch of four letter words involved but who could blame him?

Then son heard something behind him, he hoped someone stumbled by to help, but nope. We Craigs are never that lucky. Instead, the entire duck population had come to Frank’s rescue. Yup, standing behind my son was at least a dozen of Frank’s homies. Fearing being flogged by a bunch of ducks, Son took out his wire cutters and got busy. The pack of ducks were holding guard, as if debating whether or not to attack. Son claimed it was sort of like one of those westerns where they tell the doctor if the patient dies, they’ll do him in.

Finally, the hook was removed and Frank was released. Of course, son claims the darn bird wasn’t a bit appreciative. Son packed up his fishing pole, tossed Frank all the leftover worms, and came home. Once he arrived, he asked the question. “Why does weird crap always happen to us?”

I sighed and told him he should be happy he doesn’t have false teeth. And if he ever does, don’t ever get on a plane.

So there you have it. My son’s fishing trip gone bad.

Anything happening around your neck of the woods? Do you think I could add this to a book? Speaking of books, have you read any good ones lately? I need some recommendations; life around here has been too crazy.