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They control the parks and fear not the humans. A couple of them just had a fight with each other, using my leg as a stripper pole for a cat fight.

They are the birds of Brussels.

I would not even call them ducks, for they are the size of geese. The fearless giant ducks that nightmares are made of.

At night, they are kings. They march down the human made paths, expanding their empire and invading what we gullibly believe to be our rein.

Just like pretty little lady birds with their beautiful and intriguing patterns turn disgusting and near-by scary when they turn into a plague that fills the air around us, there is nothing cute about these ducks. They need not our breadcrumbs to swell up as if they are on high performance feed from America.

I flee the park and think of the day I ended up in the midst of a dog fight because I was in a hurry and never take the long way around trouble.

Two big dogs held by little owners were barking at each other out in the snowfilled Danish suburbs, when I walked in between them. Immediately, I had a dog hanging off my right leg with a good gob grip on the thick winter boots I was wearing, alhamdulilah.

Saved by animal skin unlike the time when it was an animal member of the Copenhagen police corp that suddenly hung off my left teen hip because its owner told it to.

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