Silence of the Ducks

It was raining.  In fact, it seemed that it was always raining.  In typical fashion, the chickens complained and the ducks thrived.  The Englishboy was visiting for Christmas and I asked him if he would put the ducks away for me.  I was tired of digging out my umbrella and struggling in and out of my wellies twice a day to trudge down the hill to the garden, the grass bubbling up with warm mud.  "They will probably be in their house already so it should be easy," I told him.

The Englishboy couldn't locate the ducks.  They weren't in the garden or their house.  They weren't on the pond.  They weren't in the neighbor's yard.  In fact, he couldn't even hear them which was unusual because they were constantly quacking to each other.  He feared the worst fate had happened to them.

I teetered precariously over my wellies and managed to get the hem of my pajama bottoms tucked neatly inside.  I clutched an old umbrella and grabbed my flashlight.  Carefully, I sloshed to the center of the back yard and called out "Ducks....".  Silence.  "Ducks?!" I yelled with less grace and certainty.  They answered me promptly with loud quacks and I could hear their feet slapping against the wet brick path.  Relieved, I rushed over to see them waddling into their house, all neatly in a row.  I closed their gate and bid them goodnight.  They had been hiding from The Englishboy, yet they still came when I called.  I supposed that they did appreciate me after all.