M and I had no idea the Aflac duck job was up for grabs. The Sunday of the Boston Marathon we were resting on a park bench in the dappled sunlight of a floodplain mini-park in Bronxville, New York, a few dog walkers braving the soggy ground, near the banks of a surging river, no place for a Mallard couple that waddles, the female leading, toward M who is quack, quack, quacking in such a way that the couple makes a beeline for her, and it’s not until the two of them are about twenty feet away that they come up short, like children fooled until the last moment by a dead-ringer for their mother, but they don’t leave, M’s sotto voce quack, quack, quacking settles them as they both snuggle into the grass, only a body-length away and spend the rest of the afternoon with us, so don’t tell me that M wouldn’t have been a better choice to be the Aflac duck than a radio sales manager from Minnesota. If only we had known.
