One Angry Duck!

Donald tried to kill me!

So I had this dream this morning, during my 7AM nap, that N and I found this dying duck outside our door. But it wasn't really our door as this whole dream took place in a cross between my old apartment on Stuyvesant Ave and Halsey Street and my grandmother's old railroad apartment on Patchen Avenue in Brooklyn.

So this duck was nearly dead, y'all! Its feathers were replaced with this leathery skin and its breathing was labored, so with 15 seasons of ER under my belt, I assessed that the duck was dehydrated and needed to be put in water ASAP. We grabbed a white painter's bucket, filled it with water and yes, put a grown ass duck in the bucket. The effects were immediate. Feathers seemed to reappear and the duck was breathing better and even frolicking in the water. I felt confident enough to leave N in charge of its care while I went off to do some dream-like things.

Cut to N running into the room to inform me that the duck escaped. So I ran around the house looking for it with her, because all of a sudden it was so important we find it. And when we spotted it in the kitchen, IT ATTACKED US. As we tried to coax it back into the bucket it pecked at us and tried to bite us and was flapping its wings angrily at us. I was all, "What the fuck? I just saved your fucking life!"

But this duck would not let up, and my dream self yelled at my real self to wake the hell up; this bird was coming for blood and I wanted out! And then I woke up, relieved.

What the hell, y'all? I haven't eaten duck in nearly two years. Why was this thing trying to cut my throat up with its beak?

UPDATE: So I shared this dream with my co-worker and we decided that K is the duck. So much to think about right now...

*smooches...resolved to never eat almonds before bed again*
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I mean, what else could it have been?