A couple of months earlier, I tried to introduce them to
the pond. I herded the ducks to the dock
and managed to catch two. With a duck
under each arm, I trekked to the end of the wooden dock and tossed them unceremoniously
into the inky surface. They acted like I
had tossed them into acid, flapping their wings and practically flying to the
safety of the grass.
Now, the ducks marveled at the wonders the pond had to
offer. They swam, they dove, they dunked
each other below the surface and they foraged among the lily pads. They would only return to the main house if
they were hungry and they avoided the shelter of their own little house I
dubbed “Puddle Duck Pub”. Each morning
when I let the dogs out, I would call to them with my own version of a duck
call. “Ducks!” I would yell and they
would quack back to me from their hidden spot in the pond. At night, I would walk down to the pond with
my flashlight and play tag with them. I
would shine my light to the left and they would swim furiously in a pack to the
right. I’m not entirely sure they enjoyed
this game as much as I did.
The mild temperatures of our southern winter finally gave
way to the bitter, blustery winds of the New Year and the Englishman and I
arrived home after work to find the ducks in a small pile of feathers near our
driveway. It looked like they couldn’t
remember where their house was after weeks of frolicking on the pond. We each grabbed a flashlight and guided them
to the warmth of Puddle Duck Pub. I
closed the door and listened to their chatter before retreating to the warmth
of my own house. I was amused that, even
with all those feathers, pampered ducks still get cold and could (partially)
navigate their way back home.
