Morning traffic crawled through downtown the way it always did—engines humming, horns tapping out small frustrations, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing, at least, until a police officer noticed an old pickup truck rolling by with its bed completely full of ducks.
Just ducks.
Dozens of them stood calmly in the open truck bed, feathers brushing, necks bobbing gently, quacking as if this were the most normal commute in the world.
The officer blinked. Then blinked again. And finally, doing his job, he pulled the truck over.Behind the wheel sat an elderly man with sun-worn hands and a peaceful smile, the kind of face you’d expect to see at a farmers’ market rather than in traffic. The officer explained—firm but polite—that loose animals weren’t allowed in city traffic. It was unsafe. He told the man he’d need to take the ducks to the zoo.
The old man listened carefully, nodded, thanked him, and drove off without a word of protest.
Problem solved. Or so it seemed.
By the next afternoon, the officer had nearly forgotten the incident—until traffic slowed again, and that same pickup truck came into view
Same truck.
Same ducks.
But this time, every single one of them was wearing tiny sunglasses.
Bright little lenses perched proudly on beaks. Reflections flashing in the sunlight. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks. Laughter rippled across the sidewalk. Phones came out. The scene looked less like traffic and more like a parade.
The officer exhaled, rubbed his forehead, and pulled the truck over again.
As he approached, the ducks quacked cheerfully, some tilting their heads as if posing. Authority suddenly felt… fragile.
“Sir,” the officer said, choosing his words carefully, “I told you yesterday to take these ducks to the zoo.”
The old man looked genuinely surprised. Then his face broke into a bigger smile.
“I did,” he said warmly. “We had a lovely day. Ducks enjoyed it very much.”
The officer paused. “Then why,” he asked slowly, “are they back here?”
