I'm currently embroiled in one of mankind's least pleasurable tasks: packing for a move. Last night all was going according to plan—I was working just hard enough that my wife wouldn't notice how little I was doing—when I heard a tremendous crash followed by a scream emanating from my home office. Terrified by the possibility that my shoulder-mounted whitetail had fallen onto my wife and she had broken off one of its ears, I ran into the room. My wife was frozen. She couldn't look at me, and couldn't look at the destruction behind her. "Oh my gosh, Kyle," my wife said. "I knocked your duck onto the floor and I think its head fell off. I can't look." I walked by my wife, looked onto the floor and started laughing. "Well, good news," I said. "My spoonbill's head is fine, but you knocked its butt off."
We shared a laugh and I told her it was fine. Fortunately, the spoony was poorly mounted by an aspiring taxidermist for very little money, and it isn't in prime plumage—every waterfowler's garage needs a few beat-up mounts. But then I got to thinking—had my wife done this on purpose? She always hated that spoonbill, and said it wasn't as charming or beautiful as a pintail or mallard. Frankly, I think it always made her a little jealous. What say you, friends? Was this one of those unavoidable accidents that occur during any move, or has my wife intentionally trashed my beloved spoonbill?
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