Ducks and chucks,
To define the word honk-up, my friends, I'll tell you a little story:
My pond CEO Goose Luce, who only says the words "Goose Luce" but has a ducking brilliant ability to communicate anyway, moved in with me and Riley last week because of a plumbing problem in her goose pad. But before she did so, she sat me down over a pondweed coffee and said, "Goose Luce, Goose Luce, Goose Luce," by which she meant, "My moving in with you might cause a bit of a honk-up."
"I don't see why," I said. "You and I are good friends."
Goose Luce replied that she tends to bump into things all the time and stuff falls out of her feathers, and she wouldn't be offended if that was too much.
"It's all right," I said. "Same thing happens to me. We'll make it work."
So Goose Luce moved in on the proviso that we'd say if any of us got overwhelmed.
Over the following three days, things got chaotic! Goose Luce wears hair curlers morning and evening, and because she bumps into the walls, beak-first, not only were there dents in the wallpaper (Riley was not pleased) but I also found curlers in my mug of pondweed tea, my duck-oatmeal, and my pillowcase just to name a few.
Now look, things fall out of my feathers too, but they're mostly things like tadpoles, bits of twig, and the occasional peaceful goldfish. For some, that might be a total duck-up, but for others, it's nothing a dustpan and brush won't fix. We love each other, but we're not necessarily a great fit as housemates, am I right? Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that Goose Luce walked right into Riley's statue of their Great Uncle Cavendish smoking a cigar while sitting on the pot, so for the first time in seventy-five years, Great Uncle Cavendish fell *off* the pot.
Then Riley discovered they were allergic to Goose Luce's feathers, which is a problem seeing as Goose Luce sleepwalks at night and has a habit of ending up in our bed. Riley's an opera singer, so rhinitis is more than your average problem. And what if it got worse? Health is ducking important.
In the end, I had to sit Goose Luce down with another cup of pondweed coffee and say, "Goose Luce, much as we love you, a duck must have boundaries, because if I don't, it will ruin both our friendship and Riley's nasal cavities. Also, the whole 'knocking over of things' is causing me some panicky moments. Not your fault—we're just not a good fit in a home-sharing way."
Goose Luce dropped her head to one side and blinked at me. "Goose Luce?" she asked, by which she meant, "Bit of a honk-up, huh?"
"Well," I said, "it's all relative. Calling yourself a 'honk-up' seems harsh. Your energy and our energy works brilliantly over a coffee—just look at the big, honking smile on my beak."
And you know what? Goose Luce gave me a hug and said, "Goose Luce, Goose Luce, Goose Luce," which made me super-ducking happy, because when a friend tells you they love you all the more for your honesty and they really ducking mean it, it's can totally bring you closer.
She went to stay with Mallard Jones, who has a whole separate guest wing and moaned to me incessantly about the fact she still manages to run him out of spray deodorant, even though his bathroom is in a completely different wing of the mansion.
So there we have it—hopefully that story defined the word honk-up. And if you'd like to read the absolute ri-duck-ulousness that happened AFTER THIS, check out the next post, Mallard's Mouse Muddle.
Want to duck around with us some more, friends? Join my email list to get my private pond letters and some other duckie freebies.
Look after you, my friends.