Towards the end of the summer of 2006, right before our senior year, one of Mark's friends gave him a duck for his birthday.
A real, live, flapping, quaking duck.
The logic of such a gift to a guy who lives in dorms where no animals are allowed (the students are destructive enough), to this day escapes me, but logic aside, Mark became the proud owner of a duck.
He named the duck Trogdor.
Trogdor lived contentedly in his crate in Mark's dorm room, at least until the RA and Mark's roommate both ran out of patience. The duck had to go, or Mark was out of the dorms and in debt (breaking dorm regs apparently carries fines).
Out of all of Mark's friends, guess which was the most responsible pushover who happened to live in a house, not a dorm or apartment?
Trogdor stayed with Bec, Megan, and I at out little house for a couple of months, stinking up my room and working his way into my heart. We spent hours on the patio, where he would sit on my feet until I tried to touch him, when he would run just out of my reach, then return to his perch.
Anyway. The point is, that's why I named my giant stuffed duck Trogdor the Great.