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The ducks have a routine.

Every morning.

They gotta wash up.

It’s a serious, fastidious business.

Get in there! Don’t miss anything!

I’m not making fun of you, I promise! I’m admiring your dedication.

There you go, show off, flash those wings.

I wonder if he knows there’s a feather out of place.

I think he heard me. He’s going back to work.

How does he do that with his neck?

He can really move that thing.

Look at that! Behind his back and upside down.

IS THAT A BEAK COMING OUT OF HIS FLUFFY BUTT?

Whew. That looks….almost….normal again.

I’m not making fun of you. Honest.

My point, AND I DO HAVE ONE, is actually not all this duck-washing.
Although it is quite a sight to behold.
My point is…..

….this duck used to be dark brown all over!
See????

Was he just really dirty? DOES THAT EXPLAIN ALL THE WASHING?

Hen: “What did the chicken say when it laid a square egg?”
Rooster: “What?”
Hen: “OUCH.”
Posted by Suzanne McMinn | Permalink
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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