It was a foul/fowl day either way you spell it. There was enough dry time in the morning to get the doggies out, but then it rained, rained, rained and rained as though trying to catch up on the drought moaned about about the TV talking heads.
In this campground most people just stayed in like I did, finding ways to twiddle away the day. I spent much of the day knitting sox and looking through the windshield of my RV to see if there was any activity. The pet ducks, as you'd imagine, were delighted! Instead of only the kiddie pool they normally were confined to - the gods had turned the entire campground into a series of private lakes solely for their pleasure! They could paddle anywhere, shaking their tails in joy and poking their yellow bills into the muck for delectable morsels.
The feral chickens, on the other hand, surely cursed these same gods for forcing them to be stranded on the high land of a picnic table to protect their chicken feet from the water. Today they couldn't bully the ducks as they usually did.
My grandmother would say "Every dog has his day". This was a day of "Every duck has his day".