What Pets Do

November 4, 2008
By Leighton Meyers, Bullhead City, AZ

"Oh, come on! You have got to better than that," Mickie, a tiny Dachsund, yelled at Marvin, a little water frog.

"Well it's not like I can actually get out of this pond or anything, genius," Marvin retorted.

"Honestly, you could have done way better than an open can of peanuts! I mean, come on. Peanuts? Who throws peanuts at ducks? We need crackers, featherboy!"

"Crackers ain't gonna survive the pond water! You're gonna need to find 'em on your own."

"Crackers can so survive the water! Watch." Mickie took the only cracker he had and threw it into the pond. It got soggy, and was no longer usuable. So much for going to feed the ducks.

"See! You ruined the cracker! Now the ducks are going to hate us! Do you know how much damage those beaks can cause, Mickie?! It ain't pretty. Trust me on that."

"Like the ducks are going to attack us."

"They could, you know."

"Yeah, there's really a duck mafia wandering around with gangster hats and cigars."

"Whatever. They're real. I've seen them. Just believe what you want, but I, for one, am staying out of their way." Marvin dove under the algae littered surface. Mickie wondered if there really could be a duck mafia.

He pictured ducks half his size smoking cigars and wearing gangster hats with bling. He chuckled. A duck mafia? Pssh. Mickie had better things to think about. Like stealing that dog's bone over there! That's when he met up with the real duck mafia.

They were just as he imagined them, except without the hats, bling, and cigars. They had that gangster look to them. "Yo, you be messing with me homedawg," the head duck, who Mickie thought was named Arch, convicted sternly.

"I ain't dissin' none of your homies, umm, dude," Mickie replied, trying to act gangster himself.

"Dude? What is 'dude' supposed to mean, yo?"

"Umm, it's a word we regular people use instead of homies or peeps."

"Yo, I ain't no dude. I am a homie! Get it straight."

"You know, for being gangster, you really can't talk like one," Mickie retorted.

"And you would know how a homie talks?"


"You said 'dude' not something gangster-ish. And you think you know how a homie like me would talk? Pssh. Get real."

"If you're going to be a homie, you gotta act like one, first of all. Second, you need to chiil, dawg. I ain't dissin' nobody."

"Whatever, dawg! I heard you dissin' the duck mafia! Don't be hatin' on us 'cause we yellow and you brown. Yo."

Mickie rolled his eyes and walked away. Maybe his owner would give him a biscuit when he got home. . .

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