Season of this content enters in. The great canned duck hunt has begun. I am a able quarry. I have the patience of Mror. I can virtually taste it again.

I’m furred therefore I purr and though wind may brrr, and teh sliding glass door may frost my tail, I won’t lose eye contact with her who can open door to fridge where It site. I won’t even stir from this post where it has been known that the hissing release has been eared.

I love a good duck. I could elegies to both fowl and fair to that succulant dark meat.

It sits well on my stomach, like a thickened winter coat, it skims just by my skin. MY ribs are less prominent. My appetite is becoming dominant with strident sounds crescendoing as my four fast feet make swift figure eights in my near swoon at the coming of more duck.

Duck. Duck, Duck, Duck it all. Isn’t that a fabulous word?