Enslaved by Ducks (31 page)

“I wouldn’t do that, either.”

“I’ll just crawl out a little ways.”

“Let me remind you that I can’t swim, and I especially can’t swim in really cold water.” I hugged myself tighter, even considering the possibility of my shivering flesh coming in contact with anything wet. “If you start to drown, you’re on your own.”

“Hold on to my ankles, then,” she told me, as she got down on her knees and leaned twin purple mittens upon the ice. Startled by her intrusion or simply rattled by the inexplicable sight of a well-bundled hominid on all fours, the white duck and the Canada goose fled with flapping wings to the far side of the frozen pond.

“They’ll be okay,” I told her, as we stood staring into the floodlit gloom of swirling snow. Eventually the duck and goose began sidling toward their water sanctuary, convinced that they must have experienced a winter hallucination. I was sorry for the birds, even though they didn’t seem particularly vulnerable at the moment. But Linda was probably right that once the pond completely iced over, without the ability to fly, they would be at the mercy of stray neighborhood children and boisterous dogs. We were peculiarly helpless to help them. Far from feeling defeated by the futility of the situation, I was beginning to experience a faint glow of happiness as I recalled the comfort of the beckoning living room couch. We retreated to the relative warmth of the car and slid on icy roads in the direction of home.

Linda didn’t give up on the Richmond Park duck. She had started calling him Richie. Through B.J. she learned the phone number of a woman named Lesley who lived near the pond and had tried to catch the duck. When she wasn’t plotting strategy with Lesley, Linda was conspiring with energetic animal-shelter employee Bruce, whom Lesley spoke to almost daily about the icebound duck and goose. Bruce had made two after-midnight attempts to sneak up on the birds, in addition to a number of daylight pursuits. During her own visits to the pond, Linda enlisted the aid of gamboling grade-school-age kids, who leapt at the chance to chase the waterfowl without incurring a frown or swat from an adult. But the birds always eluded capture.

Linda’s worries about Richie and his friend increased as temperatures plummeted. I devoted a tiny corner of my mind to the Richmond waterfowl, but our own ducks and geese were my immediate concern. One Saturday morning when I waddled out to the pen swaddled in sweaters and a ski parka, all of the birds except Hector trotted out into the snow. Although he hissed and snapped his beak, Hector was rooted to one spot, unable to walk away. Like our first Muscovy, Daphne, his feathers didn’t repel water as efficiently as the other ducks’, and after splashing himself from the bucket the previous evening and failing to shed the water, he had ended up frozen to the ground. Only a few feathers imprisoned him, and I managed to quickly free him with a couple of deft tugs. When Linda “defrosted” him with a hair dryer, she noticed an odd lump of flesh the diameter of her thumbnail protruding from the middle of his back. “We’d better have that looked at,” she said. “It’s some sort of growth that might need to be cut off.”

The news from Richmond Park turned dire. When Linda called Lesley for an update the following Monday, she learned that the
pond was almost completely frozen over. A few adventuresome children had begun skating on the thickest ice around the edges, frightening the birds into retreating to the bushes until after dark, when they returned to their tiny dwindling patch of slushy surface water. “In a day or two,” Lesley said, “there won’t be any water left.” Linda barely slept that night. Around 4:00
A.M
. I awoke to blearily notice light leaking through the crack of the closed bedroom door. I found Linda on the couch. “I’ve been up since two,” she told me. “I can’t stop thinking about that duck.”

After work the next day, I took my boots off on the porch rather than stomping off the snow on the mat in the living room and quietly set them on the floor. I opened the front door gently enough to avoid triggering the oversize jingle bells still tied to the door-knob and shut it with the same care. I expected my exhausted wife to be in the throes of a ferocious afternoon nap. Instead she whooshed in from the kitchen enveloped by a beatific glow. “Bruce just called!” she cried. “He caught Richie last night. The Canadian got away. It turned out he could fly.”

“He caught Richie?” I marveled. “How?”

“Bruce had a net of some kind,” she told me, though presumably not the two-person pond-wide variety. “He was able to get right out onto the ice and snuck up on them when they were sleeping. The Canadian flew away, but get this. When he took Richie to the animal shelter, it turned out that they already had a Canadian goose, so they put Richie in the same pen with the Canadian, and he feels right at home. It’s a miracle from the Lord!”

“What’ll happen to him?”

“They’ve got to decide at the animal shelter. We might get him, so keep your fingers crossed.”

R
ICHIE STAYED AT
the shelter for just over a week while the
staff veterinarian evaluated his health. After passing the treadmill test with flying colors and promising to watch his cholesterol levels, he was first unleashed on an area farmer who occasionally took in orphaned animals. But Richie turned out to be one duck too many for his flock once his penchant for fighting with other males emerged. We agreed to take him and try housing him with our females, figuring that a large White Pekin couldn’t mate with our smaller Khaki Campbell females any more successfully than Walter could sire another rabbit with Bertie. We did wonder whether a feral duck accustomed to the unfettered grandeur of Richmond Park pond would adapt well to drab captivity. His most recent interactions with humans had consisted of them chasing him with or without a net, and we worried that he might not tolerate us performing duck-pen chores at close quarters, especially when one of us could conceivably be singing “Camptown Races” as she worked.

Richie’s impressive gooselike stature and radiant white plumage immediately intimidated both our hens and drakes when we introduced him to the girls’ side of the pen. Stewart and Trevor muttered dire threats from the safety of the opposite side of the wire. The females danced away whenever the behemoth took an awkward step in their direction. The girls’ nervousness infected the geese, who maintained a respectful distance even though they stood a full head taller than the puzzled newcomer. As the day wore on and important matters such as quacking incessantly for ice-free swimming pool water supplanted lesser concerns, the girls came around to blandly regarding Richie as just another duck. For his part, Richie decided that while freedom had its place, bountiful females and plentiful food were what he really wanted in life.

With a dollop of trepidation, we released Richie and the girls into the forty-inch-high snow pack that covered our backyard while we
changed their water and replenished their scratch feed. Instead of bolting for the perimeter fence at the sight of Linda dragging out a hose from the basement, Richie dutifully stayed close to the girls as they paddled through the powder and obediently followed them back into the enclosure when their exercise time and our tolerance for frigid wind blasts mutually expired. He meshed so easily with our other ducks, I wondered if he hadn’t been pining for a stable home environment during his seemingly carefree months at Richmond Park.

“What was he even doing there?”

“He can’t fly,” Linda said. “He couldn’t have gotten there himself, so somebody probably dumped him.”

That meant we were building a community of waterfowl misfits.

Our main misfit, Hector, accompanied Linda on a late-winter visit to Dr. Fuller, who delivered the bad news that the growth on the Muscovy’s back was an inoperable tumor rooted to his spine. I took the information in stride, figuring that any negative consequences loomed far off in the future. The previous winter, Dr. Fuller had x-rayed our friendly female parakeet, Rossy, and discovered a tumor tucked inside the recesses of an air sac that was responsible for her intermittent breathing difficulties. Sometimes in the evenings when she grew tired, her tail flicked with every breath and she wheezed loudly enough that we could hear her in the next room. Still, she remained active and happy for a full year. On her last day of life, she flew to my shoulder as usual during dinner, snuggled against my neck, and pecked at a scrap of bread, weak but apparently otherwise untroubled. If Rossy could survive for months carrying an insidious tumor deep inside a vital respiratory organ, then Hector’s external tumor didn’t strike me as immediately life threatening.

His freezing to the ground earlier in the winter had apparently
been an omen, however. He began to stumble and move around more slowly. One spring morning shortly after the lavender crocuses had replaced the last patches of ice on the ground, the girls streamed out of their pen to nibble greedily at the damp backyard dirt. When Hector didn’t follow at his usual diffident distance, Linda discovered her favorite duck stranded inside the pen, unable to stand up. By tensing his wings and using them as crutches, he managed a degree of locomotion across the gravel floor but not enough to get him anywhere. The hot pride in his yellow eyes dared Linda to feel sorry for him, and he thrashed unhappily when she picked him up and carried him into the house. We commandeered Walter’s fenced-in enclosure in the basement, wrapped straw around a sheet for use as a bed, and kept Hector as comfortable as possible. He disliked being indoors and might have tolerated the porch with better humor, but Linda worried that it was too cold for him.

Linda’s friend LuAnne brought over a small laminated picture of St. Francis of Assisi with a prayer to the saint printed on the back—we called them “holy cards” when I attended Blessed Sacrament School—and hung it on a ribbon over the convalescent’s pen. “It’s been blessed by Father Andresiak,” she told Linda. “I brought a bottle of holy water, too.” While Linda held Hector in her lap, LuAnne looped a rosary around the duck’s neck, sprinkled him with the holy water, and prayed with my wife for his recovery. As always, Hector loved receiving attention from Linda, though I suspected that LuAnne’s Catholic rituals perplexed a duck whose disdain for water had always ruled out baptism.

Despite their prayers, Hector grew alarmingly weak over the next few days and finally stopped eating his scratch feed. I wrestled with the question of whether we should euthanize him, while Linda held firm to her belief that as long as he didn’t appear to be
suffering, he should be allowed to live out his final hours. I knew she was right, because Linda made sure that Hector’s last impression was of her love for him. If any duck died happily, that Muscovy did. While I went to work as usual, Linda spent a large part of the morning with Hector. “I could tell by the look in his eye that he wasn’t going to make it through the day,” Linda told me later. She placed him outside so he could enjoy the sun. When he tried to flap his wings and acted agitated, she picked him up and he calmed right down. “I sat back down and held him for a while,” she told me. “He gave a shudder, and I knew that he was dying then.”

I was incredibly touched by Linda’s dedication to an animal that most other people would simply have ignored, if you could ignore a duck who was busy calculating the most auspicious angle for latching on to your leg with his beak. We were comforted by our friends, especially Linda’s friend Deanne and our pet-sitter Betty MacKay. The previous fall, while we were on vacation, Betty’s husband, Wayne, could hardly believe his wife’s description of our hissing, panting duck and had come over to our house to see the beast for himself. He had immediately hit it off with Hector, Betty had told us, and had gotten a kick out of the way the Muscovy followed him around the yard. When Linda phoned Betty to break the news that Hector had died, Betty paused. “I sure hate to have to tell Wayne,” she said. “He was just crazy about him.” I can’t think of another duck who had as many admirers as our twenty-five-cent Hector, and I just hope that the next world is solid enough for him to bite.

Other backyard developments helped distract us from grieving too much for Hector. Our Richmond Park duck, Richie, entered the spirit of spring full throttle and began pestering the females. We tried talking Stewart and Trevor into sharing their space with the newcomer. Though they reluctantly agreed to give the lad a break, they failed to factor in their own elevated hormone levels. Feather tugging
fights erupted within minutes of Richie’s entry to their pen. “They’ll sort it out and be best buddies pretty quick,” I predicted. Instead, tempers flared to such an extent that interloper Richie hung back near the feed dish while the Khaki Campbell brothers duked it out between themselves. The fights disturbed the females next door, who lodged a formal complaint with their landlords by boisterously honking and quacking their disapproval. The only remedy was returning Richie to the harem in which we figured he was effectively a eunuch. To be on the safe side, we zealously discarded the females’ eggs as a surefire method of birth control. The last thing we needed was yet another duck.

Because ducks cannot crossbreed with geese, we never bothered to examine Liza and Hailey’s nests of infertile eggs, and that was our mistake. We permitted the two sisters their motherhood fantasies and let them each enjoy their nests. We only took away their eggs if one broke and interfered with the natural perfume of the pen—or if the geese grew obsessive about their nests and refused to leave them even to eat. Liza was getting close to this point when she started clinging to her nest with unusual vigor. We saw so little of her that I started to fear she might be having an aspergillosis flare-up.

“Liza?” As I bent down and peered into the doghouse, I confronted her thatch of white tail feathers. “Liza, are you okay?” I touched her between her shoulders. A soft double honk answered me from the shadows, but she showed no sign of budging. “Come on, you need to get some fresh air,” I told her, as I pressed my hands around her body and eased her through the portal, being careful not to bump her head as she extended her neck and shot me a surprised look. Once I set her on the gravel floor, she tooted indignantly and for a moment seemed poised to pop back into the doghouse. At the sound of an answering honk from her sister out
in the yard, she changed her mind and trundled through the duck-pen door. As I followed her, I thought I heard a tiny unfamiliar voice. I stopped and surveyed the trees around the pen and the dense thicket of thorny bushes that leaned over the back fence in hopes of snagging me. I prided myself on knowing the songs, call notes, and squawks of two dozen or so species of birds that visited our property throughout the year and wondered if an exotic warbler was about to reveal itself. But when the briefly detected peeping didn’t recur, I put it out of my mind.