Canadadayparc

Here is a story: you can decide whether it’s a tragedy or a comedy.
Yesterday I went to Parc Lafontaine in the late afternoon; it was a beautiful,
perfect Canada Day and the park was full of quiet groups
enjoying each other’s company. I sat at the western side, near the fountain,
where the bank forms a sort of amphitheater and is covered with long
grass. Maybe six other small groups or couples were in the area too,
and we all got amused watching a little duckling, newly on its own,
swimming around near the shore. A couple, close to it, kept getting up
to look when the duckling disappeared in the reeds, and then they’d
exchange delighted glances, the girl leaning forward on the bench and
pressing her hands together while her investigating boyfriend conveyed
his love in backward, big-eyed looks whenever he spotted
the little creature, still with patches of fuzzy yellow on its back.

So there you have the scene. Enter a man, thirty-ish, dressed in black,
wearing a slouchy hat and sunglasses, accompanied by a smiling huskie-like
dog. He lets the dog off the leash and sits in the grass alone,
listening to a CD player that he places beside him. After half an hour
or so, he gets up to leave, about when I’m thinking of leaving too, and
tosses a red ball into the water and whistles for his dog. The dog
jumps into the lake but ignores the ball because, of course, he sees
motion heading out toward the fountain: the darling little duckling.
All of us watch in growing horror as the dog closes in on the
frantically swimming baby bird. The man is now standing on the shoreline,
calling to the dog, who ignores him. The dog lunges at the bird; no,
he’s not close enough. The duckling swims ahead, leaving a wake. The dog closes in again. The duckling suddenly tries to
dive – an instinctive attempt at escape – but he’s too buoyant; he can’t make himself go down desipe the desperate flapping of his little upended feet. He pops to
the surface — the dog opens his mouth, lunges forward — and the duckling
disappears. The dog, mouth now closed, turns and paddles triumphantly toward the
shoreline where his master is standing, arms at his sides, barking sharp commands. The dog comes up onto
the shore, there’s a scuffle in the bulrushes as the master tries to empty his mouth; we can’t see what’s happening; the master snaps on the
leash and drags the dog onto the path, looking as discomfited as an
actor in the spotlights who has suddenly forgotten the lines of his soliloquy. Those of
us who’ve witnessed the deed stare at the water, casting stunned sideways
glances toward each other; no one says a word, and the man, walking
stiffly, and his dog exit down the path the way they came.

–

I left and went home, where I told J. the story, which, in spite of my
love for the park’s ducklings, made us both laugh – it was just so,
so…shatteringly non-idyllic. Rather like "Bambi meets Godzilla." And maybe the duckling had survived — though I doubted it.

I made a picnic of
grilled chicken; a salad of Quebec wax beans with shitakes, water
chestnuts and walnuts; goat cheese; peaches, raspberries, and mango
tossed with a little cognac; and some strong coffee. The two of us
carried it all over to the park, spread out a blanket, and took our
place among the lovers in their bikinis, the cello and tabla players,
the solo readers and meditators, the couple behind us smoking a water pipe, the family picnickers lying in the
magical late afternoon sun while their babies rolled and ran in the grass: all happily oblivious to the earlier murder
except for a gull who called raucously for an entire hour from the top of a
light pole near the shoreline: "If only you knew!"