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As the title reveals, my rubber ducky and I are having problems. And, as with any other situation involving psychotic waterfowl, this is a problem that will not simply sort itself out. Nor will it be easily solved.

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.

Yesterday, when I got out of my shower, I found a message slashed through the steam on the mirror. “SOMEBODY HERE HAS DRY SKIN,” it said, with various misspellings that I’m fairly confident it got from me trying to work on vocabulary homework in the shower for years, “AND THAT SOMEBODY IS YOU!!”

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

My friend Samantha is a specialist in the psychiatry of small, fake animals. Once I had finally admitted that there was a problem(which is, of course, the first step) I made an appointment for my rubber ducky and I to try and sort out our problems.

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?

My duck, apparently, does not 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.

That rubber duckling's crossed the line—and there's no telling who will cross over next.