Prologue
More than 30 years ago I was supporting a wife and 3 sons by writing software in my dining room. Most of my income was from royalties on software sales, so I had a little extra time while the kids were in school and my wife was at work. I got a crazy idea that I could write magazine articles for additional income. The piece that follows was rejected by some of the finest magazines in the country. This was not unexpected, but one from The Saturday Evening Post came back with a handwritten note: “Liked your story.” For me, that was a win. Up to now I’ve shared this tale with only family and friends. I present it here, hopefully for your amusement.
Suburban Tales - The Duck
Once again it’s midnight, nearly,
And I sit with eyes all bleary,
Watching many a cable channel of unending bore.
While I’m nodding, nearly napping,
Suddenly there comes a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping,
Rapping at my patio door.
Unlike Edgar Allen Poe, I know well the feathered fiend that lurks outside in the darkness. I should. I am its mother.
It all began the Saturday before Easter. Arriving home after a busy day, I planned to have a leisurely meal and perhaps watch a TV movie. When I was greeted at the door by all three sons I immediately suspected trouble. Under normal circumstances I could enter the house engulfed in flames without raising their interest. “Dad come and see what we got for you!” eight-year old Jeffrey said, pulling me toward a large cardboard box on the kitchen counter. Glancing at his mother, I was answered by a sheepish grin, edged in guilt. The last time I saw that look was the day Diane went to a garage sale looking for a bicycle and came home with a puppy. This was not a good sign.
As I neared the box, I steeled myself for a rabbit, or perhaps a kitten. Then came the sound that made my blood run cold, the plaintive cheeping that is heard from only one creature. Sure enough, when I looked inside there was that most dreaded of all seasonal pets, the baby duckling. Most people consider them to be the paragon of all cute and endearing animals on earth, but I know better, having raised some as a boy. It was the knowledge gained from that experience which caused the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.
You see a pair of ducks is, well, a pair of ducks. A single duck, on the other hand, is a creature without an identity, knowing not what species it is. It will look around, spot something or someone, and decide that it must be one of “those.” This can cause the duckling to become a Frankenstein monster, depending on how inappropriate its choice of role models is. I advised the family of this danger in the hope that they would look at the situation logically and return the duck to the pet store. The boys, as usual, had an easy solution. “Don’t worry Dad. They had a lot of ducks left. On Monday you can go get another one!” Sensing defeat, I spent the rest of the evening finding and cleaning a large aquarium for our guest. It wound up on the desk in my office, the only vacant real estate large enough to hold it.
After insuring that the duck had ample food and water, as well as a desk lamp for warmth, I went to bed. Sometime after midnight I was awakened by frantic cheeps, audible apparently only to me, since the rest of the family slept peacefully. Being a veteran father, I was prepared to deal with a late-night feeding, but the duck wasn’t content with being fed just once. As I crawled back into bed for the third time I was sure I saw my wife snicker. When questioned about this later, she claimed to have been dreaming.
On Monday I stopped by the pet store in hope of finding some siblings for the duck, which we now called Larry because “He looks like a Larry.” All the ducklings had been sold, and only a pair of goslings was left. Sensing that it was time to take my losses in waterfowl investments, I passed them up. That night a family meeting was held and it was agreed that once Larry was big enough he would be taken to the nearby pond where survivors of numerous Easters mingled happily with wild ducks. Seeing how fast Larry was growing, I didn’t think it would be long and I began to relax.
In a few days Larry was big enough to “solo” in the bathtub. Max, the family dog, observed this even with the same keen interest that he would normally reserve for a rump roast. I decided that orientation classes were in order, so that Max would not be tempted to taste Larry when the two of them shared the back yard. After a few applications of the traditional rolled up newspaper Max appeared to be a confirmed vegetarian.
Larry grew at an alarming rate, nearly filling the aquarium in three weeks. As his down turned to feathers we began to look forward to the iridescent green head that is the trademark of the Mallard duck. Alas it was not to be. We had to face the unavoidable truth that our now fully brown Mallard was of the feminine persuasion. Larry was rechristened Lucy and released in the back yard for the first time. I expected her to frolic in the grass or swim in the wading pool that we had provided, but instead she sat down in front of the patio door and stared in with a duck’s version of a forlorn expression. When a large cat was spotted lurking just outside the fence, we decided to let Lucy sleep indoors in the aquarium each night. She would spend her days outside in Max’s protective custody.
This arrangement didn’t last long. Lucy quickly outgrew the aquarium and was moved outside to stay. She had now become quite vocal, spending her days delivering extended monologues of loud, obnoxious quacking, which were coolly received by the neighbors. Max’s doghouse, unused by Max, was pressed into service as a “duck house”, but Lucy ignored it and spent her nights sleeping on the narrow two-inch ledge that the sliding patio door rested on. Unfortunately her increased size made this a difficult feat of balance and skill. As soon as she fell asleep she would fall off, only to scramble back up and perch again. This nightly habit was my first indication of the relative intelligence level of ducks.
For several days I watched Max and Lucy to see how they would get along. At first Max seemed to be afraid of the duck, no doubt remembering how he had been punished when he tried to attack her in the bathtub. Lucy, however, took great delight in following him around and nipping at his ears and tail. Early one morning I was awakened by 15-year old Derek yelling “Dad, come quick!” Stumbling out to the patio, I found a clump of feathers and Max, slinking around in a guilty crouch. Lucy, apart from a small dent where the feathers had been, seemed fine. I sent Derek on to school and examined her closer. Under the feathers was a gaping hole, through which I could see what looked like part of a supermarket fryer. Plopping Lucy into a dishpan, I set out for the family veterinarian.
After examining Lucy the doctor determined that she needed stitches, which would necessitate anesthesia. “With an animal this size you can never tell” he announced in hushed and somber tones. “There is always the possibility that she might not come out of it.” Leaving Lucy in the office, I returned home, reeling with mixed emotions. Having presided over the funerals of several departed pets, I was not eager to do so again. Still, the prospect of returning to my pre-duck state was very attractive.
Later that afternoon I returned to the clinic to claim Lucy, or perhaps her remains. I was waiting next to an old lady with a small dog when the receptionist looked at me and said “They’ll bring her right out.” Echoing down the hall came a loud quacking. The old lady’s eyes widened as she said “Your dog must have been very sick!” When the duck arrived in her dishpan I thought for a moment that the old gal might pass out. Then I was presented with the bill for $51 and I thought I might pass out. As I headed home with Lucy loudly filling me in on the details of her operation, it occurred to me that even the finest roast duck with orange sauce would have been a good deal cheaper.
Less than an hour after arriving home, the lame duck resumed tormenting the dog, thus accounting for why the phrase “Smart as a duck” has never been a popular cliché. In a few weeks she was healed, fully grown, and in our judgement ready to being life on her own. One warm Sunday afternoon sons Jeff and Aaron set off with me for the pond, with Lucy following behind like the obedient child she thought she was. Max began turning the canine equivalent of handsprings in a fit of boundless joy. We led Lucy down to the water, where she promptly jumped in and began swimming around. Jeff had tears in his eyes and I had a lump in my throat as we edged slowly away from her and began climbing the steep bank that bordered the pond.
Scientists tell us that the cheetah is the fastest running animal. It’s fortunate that no cheetah was in the vicinity, as it would have died from embarrassment when the duck streaked past. As we reached the top of the bank, I turned and looked back to see Lucy right behind us, cutting a swath through knee-high grass with her flailing webbed feet. Like a child reunited with a lost parent, Lucy stayed right beside me as we walked back home. “This is no duck” I thought. “This is an albatross!” Max became quite testy at the duck’s homecoming and had to be physically restrained.
Consulting with neighbors who had raised ducks every spring for several years, I was advised that all of their ducks had left on their own once they could fly. Immediately I set up flight school on the patio, trying to get Lucy to imitate me as I flapped my arms. She responded by hunkering down, stretching her neck and resting her bill flat on the ground. Deciding the cause was lost, I started to walk away, which caused her to quack loudly and insistently. When I returned and stroked her she immediately quieted and gave me a look with “Thanks Mom!” written all over it. After this every time Lucy saw me she would drop down and wait to be petted. If I happened to have my hands full she would inevitably choose a spot directly in front of me, risking both our lives. I would learn, much to my embarrassment, that this was actually her way of indicating a readiness to mate.
While waiting for Lucy’s wanderlust to develop, I began to weigh the pros and cons of having a duck in the family. On the plus side, she had virtually eliminated all June bugs and crickets from the yard. A barren patch of land that had not known grass in twelve years grew lush with greenery, thanks to her daily applications of fertilizer and splash irrigation. Among the many negatives, though, was the fact that my once pleasant patio now had to be hosed down at least once a day, and often two or three times. I’m sure that Noah coined the term “fowl” for these animals after seeing what they did to the deck of the Ark. Then, of course, there was the bolt affair.
This little episode started when our oldest son, caught in that awkward age between bicycles and Buicks, bought a used motor scooter. After propping the scooter up on the patio, Derek and I had set about replacing a large number of parts. Lucy, as usual, was wandering around muttering to herself in a curious dialect that was something halfway between a quack and a cluck. Neither of us paid any attention to her as we worked. I had just removed a bolt and dropped it on the concrete, when I noticed a motion out of the corner of my eye. Looking up, I spotted Lucy, head lowered in intense concentration, as she bore down on the bolt at high speed. It suddenly dawned on me that the tiny bundle of neurons that passed for her brain had just classified the bolt as an edible object, and she meant to have it. Instantly I leaped for the bolt, propelled by the knowledge that it was an unusual size, available only from a single supplier in downtown Tokyo. Like a cobra, Lucy struck, spun around, and began racing away, chewing the bolt vigorously all the while.
With the help of 10-year old Aaron, I cornered her and picked her up. Realizing that time was of the essence, I held her with head down and attempted to perform a bird variation of the Heimlich maneuver. This resulted in great indignation on the part of the duck, but produced no hardware. Next I put her on the patio and opened her bill for a closer look. She obligingly squawked while I looked for the bolt without success. About that time Diane suggested that a trip to the vet might be in order, an idea that I quickly squelched. “Don’t worry” I said, “the bolt will turn up in a day or two.” Actually I had no notion of what would happen, but I was determined not to invest any more hard-earned dollars in duck hospitalization.
Time passed, but the bolt never did, at least to a location where we could find it. Lucy began to sprout eccentricities as easily as tail feathers. It started with her copying Max’s actions, even to the extent of chasing cats and quacking furiously at people passing by. Max reciprocated by demonstrating a sudden fondness for shredded wheat and oatmeal whenever these dishes were served to the duck. When Lucy discovered that her feet would slide on the concrete patio, she began skating across it instead of walking. She extended her kneeling-to-be-petted routine to include all members of the family. Unlike the duck of the neighboring pond, she steadfastly refused to eat bread in any form, preferring lettuce and cereal instead. And, oh yes, she did finally take to the air. This proved to be disappointing since she never achieved an altitude higher than three inches and never flew except when necessary to catch up with Max. Much as I hated to admit it, the duck had achieved permanent residency status.
Then one gray evening trouble set in. Lucy had gotten quite large, looking not unlike a tugboat as she trolled about the yard in search of food. Tonight, though, she just sat in her pond, refusing food and drinking water continuously. Turning over the facts in my mind, I kept returning to the same grim conclusion: somehow the lost bolt had shifted and was causing her to bleed internally. This was the only explanation I could arrive at for her insatiable thirst. By bedtime Diane and I had decided that Lucy would go to the vet first thing in the morning. Several times that night we got up and checked on her, each time finding her in the pool sipping water.
Early the next morning I arose to find no trace of Lucy. Calling her, I was surprised when she came trotting out from under a large bush looking a great deal slimmer than she had the night before. Her appetite had returned and she began eating furiously. I decided that the bush bore closer investigation, since it seemed to have great restorative powers. Peering through the shrubbery, I was embarrassed at my stupidity. How could I, thrice a father, have missed the obvious signs of labor? Lying on the ground in a small nest of dead grass were three brand new eggs, which Lucy had produced without the aid of mate or midwife. The two younger boys, not yet trained in biology, were overjoyed at the prospect of baby ducks until I explained that unfertilized eggs would not hatch. Jeff, a third-grader, apparently retold the story in a somewhat different form at school, claiming afterward “My teacher says the eggs will hatch in about a year.”
Lucy continued to lay eggs for nearly a week, although she spent very little time on the nest. Then her mothering instinct kicked in and she disappeared into the shrubbery, emerging for only a few minutes each day for food and water. After two weeks of dedicated sitting she apparently realized the futility of her cause and abandoned the nest. She had lost a great deal of weight and seemed much less active than usual.
Lucy’s condition continued to deteriorate, to the point that she was unable to stand without using her wings as makeshift crutches. Late one Friday afternoon I took her to the vet, once again fearing that the bolt was causing the trouble. X-rays revealed no trace of the bolt, but did show a roofing staple that she had swallowed without our knowledge. It had lodged in her gizzard for several weeks, finally causing an infection. Despite the best efforts of the doctors, and Lucy gamely taking the antibiotics they gave her, she died.
When I picked up Lucy’s body the doctor said that they had gotten quite attached to her in the short time she’d been there. Later, as I placed her frail form in a grave next to the nest, surrounded by her eggs, the tears running down my face told me that I too had gotten quite attached to her. Logically I knew that the loyalty and affection she demonstrated were simply the products of instinct, but that didn’t make them any less real. She was a beloved family member that would be missed by all of us.
For several days after Lucy’s death I imagined that I heard her scrambling up on the ledge. Max searched the yard for his lost playmate, and would lie by the door at night, crying softly. These painful periods passed, grown over by fond memories. Now, as I reflect on my brief encounter with this duck, I realize that she gave us more than she took. Perhaps looking back makes the whole experience seem better than it was, or perhaps what my children say is true and I’m slowly losing my grip. Whatever the reason, I know now what I must do. When April comes again, God help me, I’ll be first in line at the pet store when the ducks come in.
Epilogue
As it happens, the following year I did indeed buy more ducks. Not knowing how to tell their sex, I bought 3 that looked different from one another. (It’s the feet. Males tend to be more orange.) They were named Larry, Daryl, and Darrel, after the trio with those names on the sitcom Newhart. This also resulted in many memorable stories, which I’ll spare you until another time.
Thank You!