Son, my father once said to me*, one day ducks are going to discover how to bake bread for themselves. Then we’re done for.
Free of their dependence on humans for sustenance, they will rise up in an anatine revolution.
The same goes for farmyard animals and tennis.
It will start as an innocent pastoral pastime, but the animals will soon realise that by tying racquets to their hooves and trotters, eskimo-style, they need no longer fear the cattle grid. Orwell’s prophecy will come true. (The one in Animal Farm, I mean. Not the one in Keep the Aspidistra Flying.)
“Four legs good, two legs bad,” they’ll say. Except for the ducks. They’ll say: “Thank God. That’s the last time I chase after what looks like a piece of bread only to find it’s a cigarette end.”
*Not really. This is merely a rhetorical device to confer the illusion of wisdom on my theory.