Granted, I do, in fact, realize that there is a terribly, terribly fine line between "squeaky bathtub companion" and "scarily obsessive stalker," but I do so believe that my rubber ducky has finally crossed over that line. No longer does he float innocently along in the bathwater, smiling up at me from the warm suds of soap. No longer does his cheerful yellow disposition actually appear "cheerful." No longer are his tiny quacks filled with glee.

I frantically looked around the bathroom, and there, sitting in my soap dish, was my rubber ducky. With a beak suspiciously moist from condensation.

She tells me it is really not a big deal. She says that we are only having a simple communication problem.

"The duck needs change," she says. "He has developed a severe discomfort for the environment in which you have placed him. Perhaps you should look into buying a new shower curtain."

So I go out, and I buy this new shower curtain for my duck. It's green; it has caterpillars on it. I figure, hell, what duck doesn't like caterpillars?

This morning I was in the kitchen, making breakfast. Pancakes, you know, no problem, until it became time to actually mix something. I opened the refrigerator door to get the milk and eggs--and there, slightly blue from the cold, sat my duck. He'd opened the top of the milk, and was currently in the process of dropping live caterpillars (not unlike the ones on the shower curtain) in the milk, one by one. A small green plastic lizard, which I recognized from Halloween in fifth grade, was helping him.