Ducking Fantastic

FIVE MINUTES AGO...

"I don't understand why we're going to this thing."

"I promised Cherry we would. It might be fun."

"What could possibly be fun about a duck herding convention, Beau?"

"On an episode of The Amazing Race, they had to herd ducks, and it was hilarious. They used flags to get this large flock of ducks from one pen to another."

"Flags? Why's Cherry involved in this? She trains service dogs."

"Traditionally, they use dogs to herd the ducks."

"You mean, like in Babe?"

"Yeah. Except with ducks instead of sheep. And a dog instead of a pig, obviously."

"I still don't see why we need to be there. I doubt Cherry will even have time to talk to us."

"Shane, she's your girlfriend. Shouldn't you want to be there to support her?"

"If she wanted me to come, she would have asked me."

"She did ask you, when we were all hanging out last week. You didn't respond."

What I didn't mention was that a day later, Cherry had asked me if Shane and I were planning on going to the convention. I didn't really want to go either, but I've got this compulsion to make pretty girls happy. So, I promised that I would be there, and I would do my best to get Shane to come along.

It was hard to convince Shane to do anything. After decades of friendship, I'd learned that the best way to get him to do stuff was to convince him that it was his idea. However, I didn't think that method was going to fly this time. So, I went with Plan B.

In this case, the B in Plan B stood for blunt. One of mine and Shane's favorite pastimes was cruising down the highway, singing along to a playlist, while sharing a blunt. Often, at the end of such a ride, we'd grab a bite to eat at a restaurant we either had never been to before or that we rarely patronized. Whether this turned out to be a place on the opposite side of the city, a roadside diner, or a small town's single locally owned restaurant usually depended on the direction we'd started driving.

Shane was also a big fan of food trucks. I'd done a little research and learned that several food trucks were going to be present at the duck herding convention. On the day of the convention, Shane rolled, and I drove. I purposely chose a route that would end near the basketball stadium where the convention was being held. When it came time to grab food, I casually mentioned that there were a bunch of food trucks at Cherry's thing. We made our way to the convention, ate at a Jamaican themed food truck, and then I suggested that we go inside and at least say hello to Cherry. Shane dragged his feet at first, but didn't want to wait in the car. Ultimately, he reluctantly followed me as I headed toward the main doors.

###

NOW...

The duck herding convention was being held at the Hearnes Center, the local university's basketball facility. The Hearnes Center was split into uneven thirds. It had a grand main court, where the games were played. Then there was a large gym that was used for training, as well as local tournaments and exposition games. In between the two structures stood a few floors of offices and connecting hallways.

I paid for Shane and me to get into the convention and we stepped into the gymnasium. Immediately, I began to worry that we'd made a huge mistake. There were people everywhere, and I'm not the biggest fan of crowds, especially when I'm stoned. It wasn't just the sight of the milling crowd that put me on edge. In fact, sight was the least assailed of all my senses.

My ears struggled to focus on any one sound. People talked at all volume levels, their voices mixing into a muddled cacophony. To this was added the quacks of ducks and the occasional barking of a dog. All these sounds were blanketed by the pop music playing from the room's speakers. It was hard to tell what song was playing, but impossible to completely block out the music, even amidst all the competing noises. Entering the gym was like walking into a drum. The steel rafters and parquet floor bounced every sound between them, forming an audible swamp through which we had to wade.

Next came the smell. It's amazing how even when the scents of Old Spice, Axe. and floral shampoo of every variety are mixing in the air, they do nothing to hide the smell of other people's body odor. One second my nose was in a meadow, then on a date with a strapping cologne spokesmodel, then forced up against the stink of unwashed dude. I also quickly realized that ducks have their own unique odor. By that I mean, uniquely terrible. The scent of wet wood chips is a near cousin to the smell of bathroom mildew. The ducks themselves seemed to put off their own musky stench, that hung in the air, competing for dominance with the smells of human hygiene or lack thereof. I found myself wondering, how can creatures that spend most of their time in water smell so bad? The sensory overload triggered a memory. This was not the first time I'd smelled the stench of caged birds.

THE FIRST TIME...

Two years before, the girl I was dating at the time and I tripped acid at the State Fair. Her name was Lynn and our relationship was built upon doing fun things. You know, the type of things that seem fun in your twenties. Then you look back on them and realize how stupid they were. We dropped the acid during the forty-five-minute drive to the fairgrounds. By the time we had parked and paid, we were both starting to feel ourselves coming up. Neither of us wanted to go on any rides except the Ferris Wheel, which we decided to save until it got dark. The main reason we'd gone to the State Fair was to see Heart in concert, but we still had a few hours before the concert started.

First, we found the Department of Conservation tent and admired the various Missouri wildlife they had on display. Then we wondered into a large building and realized that it was an arena. An event was in progress, so we sat down to watch. That's when the acid hit us for real. I have no idea what the proper name of the event was, but Lynn and I started calling it “ride ride, shoot shoot” between fits of giggles. The event involved cowgirls riding horses around the track while shooting pistols at targets.

It seemed like something out of an Annie Oakley show. Controlled danger and stunts performed by professionals. We quickly learned that these were actually amateur riders, competing for ribbons and bragging rights. The risk of someone becoming an accidental gunshot victim didn't seem to be bothering anyone else, so Lynn and I didn't let it bother us either. We cheered with genuine excitement, jumping slightly every time a gun went off.

Afterward, we wandered into a barn where all the avian entries were being housed. The large space was full of tables, each sporting multiple cages. Ducks, chickens, geese, turkeys, and possibly a few cockatrices, as far as the eye could see. Their squawks and the constant rustling of feathers assaulted our ears. The room smelled sour, with just a hint of the hot dust smell that comes out of your vents when you turn on the heat for the first time since last winter. Lynn and I both loved animals, and so despite the sounds and smells, we began to wonder through the barn.

Now, even if you've never done acid, pop culture has probably instilled within your mind the idea of a bad trip. Pop culture usually presents it as uncontrollable hallucinations. The Duke can't check into a Vegas hotel because the floor is melting, and the clerk has a lizard head. In my experience, it's not the hallucinations that make an acid trip go bad. In fact, the visuals are the whole reason a person takes acid in the first place.

No, what makes for a bad trip is the combination of being amped up on chemicals while experiencing sensory overload. That's exactly what happened to Lynn. One minute, we were laughing at some chickens with ridiculously fancy looking feathers. The next, Lynn was screaming, knocking into people as she sprinted out of the barn. The bird barn had become too much for her, and she freaked out. I managed to calm her down and things improved from there. We took in the Heart show and really enjoyed ourselves. Tripping is a great state of mind in which to see a rock band that is way past it's prime.

After that, we rode the Ferris Wheel and pigged out on fried pork tenderloin sandwiches. On the way home, we drove toward the gathering clouds of a thunderstorm. Lightning flashed on the horizon, illuminating the curves and contours of the storm clouds. It was a beautiful sight, that was of course enhanced by the acid roaring through my system. The excitement of the day and the wondrous visual accompaniment to our drive home, pushed the memory of the bird barn deep into the hidden folds of my brain.

BACK TO NOW...

Walking into the duck herding convention caused that memory to surge to the forefront as my weed-slowed brain struggled to turn the stench assaulting my nose into a recognizable pattern. That same feeling of being overwhelmed by outside factors and my own adrenaline came over me as Shane and I stood there, trying to get our bearings. We had no idea where Cherry's booth was, so we began to make our way through the crowd. The trek was accidentally informative, and the sensory overload was soon replaced by a ton of knowledge I never asked to learn.

First, we learned that among duck herding enthusiasts, there is a rivalry between those who herd with dogs and those who use flags. It turned out that no one told this fact to whomever had been responsible for assigning booths. We happened upon an argument between vendors with opposing viewpoints.

"Flags is all about becoming one with nature. We aren't just playing with dogs!" Vendor 1 yelled.

"Our dogs are more skilled than you are! Smarter too!" Vendor 2 shot back.

"Your dog doesn't seem too smart to me. Look, he's scared of my flag."

"That's because you're waving it in his face!"

I would have loved to stay and watch the fight, but Shane had moved on and I didn't want to lose him in the crowd. Next, we heard someone talking about steins. A beer sounded amazing, so we followed the vendor's voice until we came upon the booth of a duck breeder. It turned out he wasn't saying steins. He was saying skeins, which we learned is what you call the flock of ducks being herded.

We continued through the gym, passing booths advertising duck herding as team building for businesses and booths selling the obstacles the ducks had to be herded over or around. Finally, we found Cherry's booth. Cherry worked for a non-profit that trained service dogs for people with disabilities and provided the animals to them at little to no cost. The organization raised additional funds by competing in duck herding competitions all over the country. A small tournament was the highlight of this convention and Cherry was signed up to compete later that day.

Cherry had not mentioned the tournament portion of the convention. Shane wasn't perceptive to the feelings of others, but I could tell Cherry was nervous. She casually mentioned that this would be her first time competing. It occurred to me that was why she'd wanted us to come so badly. We were to be her cheering section. Cherry hadn’t realized that Shane loved watching competitions. Hearing that he’d get to watch a tournament, even one for something as random as duck herding, got him excited. For the first time, he was stoked that I’d dragged him to the convention.

Shane and I made our way to the basketball stadium and found seats. The arena had been transformed into a duck herding course. Sheets of Astroturf had been laid across the floor, turning the court into the Brady Bunch's backyard. Pens sat on each end line with long, curved shoots attached at the rear. A series of flags had been set up across the court. Each pair of flags was spaced six feet apart and they zigzagged from one side of the court to the other.

The contest was a time-trial. The ducks were led through the chute into one of the pens. Then the contestant and their dog were timed to see how fast they could herd the ducks through each pair of flags and into the pen on the opposite end of the course.

Apparently, the tournament was split between the flag wavers and the dog wranglers. Shane and I caught the tail end of the flag wavers competition. I was impressed that the competitors seemed to be able to read their ducks' minds, always anticipating when one would break from the skein and then nudging it back into formation with the flag. The competitors admittedly did look a little ridiculous. The flags were fastened onto the end of long, thin poles that the competitors basically had to hold straight out in front of them, while running behind a bunch of quacking ducks. Perhaps it was just because I was still high, but soon the sight became comical.

Then the dog handler portion of the tournament started, and I immediately picked a side in the rivalry between the two methods of duck herding. Shane and I both became dog herding enthusiasts. Even watching the worst of the dog handlers was like seeing a work of art in motion. The handler commanded the dog, who in turn held authority over the ducks. The teamwork and precision between man and beast was a beautiful thing to watch.

Shane and I started either heckling or cheering on the other competitors, depending on what kind of dog they had.

"A sheepdog? Talk about predictable!"

"Go, Australian Shepard! Put another duck on the barbie!"

"That Collie could see the ducks better if you got him a haircut!"

"Captain Berger Picard. Beam me up, Ducky!"

Finally, it was Cherry's turn. Unlike the other competitors, who all had dogs that were bred to herd animals, Cherry had a mutt. The beautiful brindled dog was a rescue. Her grey snout stood out against the Astroturf as she darted across the course. Cherry got a decent time, but we'd seen enough other heats that day to know that it wasn't going to be enough for her to win.

After the tournament, we met Cherry outside of the Hearnes Center. Shane gave her a quick peck on the cheek, told her good job, and then bent down to play with her dog. Already discouraged over not winning, Cherry's face fell. She caught my eye a second later, and I gave her a big smile.

I wrapped her in a hug and said, "Girl, you did Ducking Fantastic."