I am not an animal rights activist by any means but I don’t condone the killing, beating or slaughtering of animals, and I do not eat red meat <insert joke here>. When it comes to standing outside in the blazing sun holding up made-it-yourself posters decorated with Sharpie markers purchased at CVS advocating the rights of endangered species, I might count myself in.

            When it comes to standing outside in the blazing sun, particularly on my running trail, because 87 ducks have decided to hold concession on my path and interrupt my otherwise perfect pace, I will maintain my belief as not being an animal rights activist.

            By any means.

            I have noticed that people in Miami have a serious attitude problem. They carry around this sense of entitlement that is evident in grocery stores, where they don’t feel like they should have to wait in line. It happens when you are approaching a red light and some child speeds by you, only to cut you off and slam on the breaks. But I am not here to talk about the breakdown and idiocracy of our society. I want to talk about how this aforementioned sense of entitlement must be in the Miami water, because it is spreading to our wildlife.

            I want to talk about these ducks.

            It’s happened to me before, you see, but lately it’s become more apparent. On mile 2, it doesn’t really seem like such a big deal. I can gracefully skip over a few ducks here and there gathering on one of nature’s beautiful mornings to discuss their plan of attack from the kids who rally around these parts with stale bread. I can handle a duck and her ducklings crossing on the path- after all, who can begrudge a mother ensuring the safety of her young? We all loved Mother Goose for crying out loud. On mile 4, I can excuse the slow-moving leaders of the pack that seem to influence their even slower-moving counterparts as I hop-scotch around them, careful not to step in their leftovers (can we not get too descriptive here?). What it boils down to is that I am understanding until about mile 7. At mile 7, I start to measure my rights a runner on this trail to their rights as animals that were blessed with webbed feet and could just as easily take up residence in the lake that surrounds this controversial territory.

            Once I am beyond mile 10, I am swearing up and down that my next run will be to Sports Authority or Bass Pro Shops, where I will happily and hastily purchase an air horn. I am tired, impatient, and no longer have that bounce in my step.

            I come with a warning.

            The only problem with this air horn scheme is that it might wake up the entire neighborhood. Wouldn’t that then group me in with Miami’s Sense of Entitlement Association? Is it really my right to scare these animals off of their land? But what is my alternative? A whistle? I am already out of breath, can you just imagine?

            Just this afternoon, I incurred another stand-off. Luckily, I was on my last mile so whatever energy I had left was just enough to convince my legs to manage their way back home. The only problem I had was that, surprisingly, it wasn’t a group of ducks I was staving off or shoeing out of the way. It was a small group of punk kids (probably the same ones that would cut me off, if they could see over the steering wheel of their mother’s mini-van). I stood my ground feeling fierce and strong; after spending last night alone, I had a sense of fearlessness and much to ponder. As I approached these 3 kids, they seemed to deliberately take up the same side of the trail that I was running. I motioned to one of them to move over and with slight defiance, he complied. His buddy fell into step behind him, but the last one wouldn’t budge. I started to wonder: Maybe we, myself included, need to start teaching our kids the importance of simple manners, and put the ducks on the back-burner for awhile (not in the literal sense, of course. I dislike Michael Vick as much as the next guy). It is our children that grow into these adults that cannot be held accountable or responsible for their actions. And maybe some of them end up having ducks for pets, and that’s how it spreads.

            I don’t know anymore. All I know is that I love to run, I don’t really mind the ducks, and I can forgive someone who can forgive me.

            As I ran past the kid who refused to move, we brushed shoulders. At first, he looked at me with justified disgust; I was 9 miles in and drenched in sweat. But then his face softened, and as I lifted my sunglasses off of my face to make eye contact with him, he uttered an apology. Half-assed, but still worthy. I smiled up at him, because nowadays 13 year old kids are taller than me, and I said:

No. I’m sorry.

Sometimes that’s enough, and sometimes you need to just find another route.