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.

Cold Duck

At the beginning of December, the ducks finally noticed the pond in the back yard.  Not the turtle pool that I had been filling twice a day for their bathing pleasure, not the small Koi pond the Englishman and I had been digging just for them…the big pond.  The pond with a dock and a row boat and their fancy floating duck house.  The real pond with room to forage along the banks and tasty bits to pluck from the surface.

 

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.

Duck Herding, Jedi Style

The ducks don’t want to sleep inside their safe and warm house at night.  They prefer to huddle in an appetizing pile of feathers right next to it.  I prefer not to feed the neighborhood’s nocturnal critters and perform the tedious task of herding the ducks into their home each evening.

In thrift shops I have seen vintage prints of small children herding a flock of ducks with a stick.  My ducks would cackle at such a sight.  If I approach them with a stick, they scatter, then reconvene and chatter about my failed efforts in a circle.  If I approach them at night with the two insanely long and metallic flashlights that the Englishman calls “torches”, I am a duck herding Jedi knight.

I walk straight toward the flock of feathers who stare at me in alarm.  They rise and move as one to the left.  I flash my left beam of light and block them.  Like Carol Ann in Poltergeist, they fear the light.  They make a move to the right.  My right arm rises with the flashlight beam.  They resort to moving in the only direction not dissected by a ray of light.  I am filled with a sense of accomplishment as they file reluctantly into their house within thirty seconds, loudly expressing their unhappiness.  I don’t care as I shut the door.  “You are sleepy” I tell them using my Jedi Mind Trick and I return to my house with the light sabers, errr… flashlights by my side.

Moving Day

Puddle Duck Pub was moved five feet to the side and two feet forward.  This allowed for more sunlight to reach the solar panel powered lights.  All five ducks watched the Englishman and me carry the house to the new location.  They tilted their heads and peered through one glittery eye each as I cleaned the inside and added new bedding.  They kept careful watch as the Englishman moved the green plastic turtle pool behind the house and filled it with clean water.  They splashed in the pool as we cleared weeds, vines and thorns.  They happily waddled in and out of their house, taking mouthfuls of food from their feed bowl.  They padded over to their drinking bucket and gorged on the lettuce I had placed on the water’s surface.  They raced around the house, chasing each other until they tired.  They slept behind the house on a mound of fall leaves, tucking their heads into their feathers in a warm patch of sun.

And when it was dark, all five huddled in a pile on the ground in front of the old duck house location.  Puddle Duck Pub was lit up like a beacon to their immediate right but they took no notice.  The ducks were confused and so were we as the Englishman and the English Boy cornered the ducks and carried them back to their shelter a stone’s throw away. 

Pearl of Wisdom

We were down to one duck and she was lonely.  Miss Pearl followed the Englishman around the yard.  She perked up when the dogs raced through the back garden.  She was a frequent visitor in the garage, stretching her neck and peering through the back door glass.  Her nighttime quarters in Puddle Duck Pub were cavernous and I imagined her quacks echoing through the space like an empty cathedral.

I did what any high-heeled wearing modern farm girl would do and fired up the I Pad to search Craigslist.  I found what I was looking for and only ten miles away.  Four ducks: two Crested Peking and two Blue Swedes.  Ten dollars per duck, two for twenty or all four for twenty.  I did the math and decided on four.  The Englishman and I headed out with one dog crate and very vague directions.  “After the four-way stop sign in Rutledge, go past three roads on the left and then we are directly across from the third road”. 

The Englishman and I argued over whether a dirt road counted as a road.  He proclaimed that the Romans would disagree.  We ended up in a cemetery and decided to call the woman for better directions.  This time she added more details including the name of the road that her residence faced and that she had the only fish mailbox for miles.  She also mentioned that it might be only two roads past the four-way stop sign.  I think she struggled with counting.

Armed with the new information, we zoomed past a road without a sign and a tacky fish mailbox.  It was a mile before I could turn around.  I drove down a narrow dirt path that was a driveway and cautiously approached the double-wide trailer.  We were greeted by a flip flop wearing woman with obviously natural maroon colored hair.  Random tattoos on her feet and ankles accessorized her tank top that was stretched tightly over her ample torso.  She led us to her chicken and duck pen.  Rusty tin cans littered the back yard and my five-inch wedge heels crunched across the dead grass.  Thirty or so tiny Bantam chickens darted about the area with crazy feathers sticking out from their legs like old-fashioned bloomers.  The Englishman and the woman’s husband entered the pallet and chicken-wired structure to retrieve the ducks.  Moments later, we settled up with a twenty-dollar bill and headed home listening to the quacks in the back of the car.

 

Miss Pearl was waiting in the driveway when we returned.  The Englishman carried the crate to the duck sanctuary and placed it on the grass.  Miss Pearl excitedly circled the crate, peering through the slits in the sides.  We opened the door but the ducks stayed inside.  Impatient, Miss Pearl dive-bombed the crate and pushed her way to the back, trying to force the other ducks out.  Frustrated, she emerged first and the others timidly followed. 

 

 

At first they noticed the food and happily gorged but then they saw the green turtle pool.  I don’t think they had been in water before and all four piled in bathing and diving and swimming in manic circles.  Their feathers hadn’t been waterproofed and they were wet and dripping and thoroughly happy.

 

 

The Englishman lit the tikki torches to fend off the mosquitoes and we tossed frozen corn and peas to our newest additions.  Miss Pearl established the pecking order with herself as the leader.  She was twice the size of the new flock and as I watched them empty the food bowl, I was sure they had been underfed. 

 

 

As the sun disappeared in the sky, the lights inside Puddle Duck Pub beckoned them to enter and Miss Pearl led her charges inside.  I closed the door and stayed behind for a few moments listening to the quacks.  “Don’t teach them all your bad habits, Miss Pearl,” I chided before retiring for the night.

Duck Stuffing

As spring seamlessly flowed into summer, the humidity thickened the air so that the smallest amount of exertion required an immediate shower.  The Englishman and I halted our efforts in forcing Slinky, Myrtle, Thorn and Poison Ivy into their floating Quack Shack each night.  They seemed content to bed down in the lush green grass at the pond's edge.  We lived in a neighborhood with such novelties as paved roads and sidewalks so I had no concerns about crime against ducks.  In the morning when I let the dogs outside, one duck would sound a loud, solitary quack and the four would charge up the hill, wobbling back and forth as they demanded food.  In the afternoons, the ducks would lounge under the bushes near the driveway, waiting for the sprinkler to spray streams of cool water.  The ducks would race through the mist, wings spread for balance, as fast as their webbed feet would allow.  They shared their treats of frozen peas and corn with George and Charlie and would scatter as Chase ran through their small flock.

And then there were three.  Just like a classic Agatha Christie mystery, one morning Slinky was gone.  I searched the yard in vain.  That evening the Englishman searched the other pond.  No feathers, no duck parts, nothing.  We felt responsible because we had abandoned our efforts to train the ducks to use their floating duck house as shelter.  "It takes about a month," I reminded the Englishman as we vowed to continue the training each evening just before dusk.

The first challenge was to catch the ducks.  Ever practical, I armed myself with a red broom and chased the ducks around the yard until I could pin one with the bristles.  Thwack!!!  Once it was pinned to the ground I could easily pluck it up and carry it to the pond.  I discovered if I caught one, the others would follow.  The Englishman did not approve of my duck catching technique.  Apparently running wildly through the backyard waving a broom in the air was not dignified.  Tossing my broom to the side, he smugly proceeded to instruct me in the finer points of herding ducks.  Apparently in England, one is born knowing how to herd ducks as it is a part of English DNA.  I was missing the duck herding chromosome and needed to pay close attention to his tutelage.  I took notes:

1.  Approach ducks (without a weapon of mass destruction) and halt the advance when the ducks move away from you.  This is their "comfort zone".

2.  Spread out your arms as if you were going to fly.  Do not pretend to fly as it is not dignified and may alarm the neighbors.

3.  Take a step to the right to make the ducks move to the left.  Take a step to the left to make the ducks move to the right.  Do not put down your arms to check your hands to see which is the left and which is the right.  Take a step forward to make the ducks move forward.  "Let's do the time warp again!"

4.  Ducks do not move in reverse so don't bother trying this.

5.  The American Broom Method is quicker.

Once the ducks were properly herded onto the dock, the Englishman tenderly placed them in the duck house.  Their quacks echoed inside the house as we retreated to ours.  Each evening we continued our "stuffing the ducks into the house" chore with 100% human effort and 0% duck effort.  Small breakthroughs occurred though.  First, we noticed that if we put one duck inside the house, it would quack and peek out of the door until the other two finally decided to join it.  Next, the ducks began to wait at the end of the dock at dusk, ready to be stuffed into their house.  Finally, I realized that the ducks could fly when one evening, as I placed one duck on the platform and attempted to stuff it through the doorway, the other two jumped from the dock, flapped their wings and glided over the tin roof of the house, landing in the water several feet away.  A few moments later, they joined their companion inside the house.

Duck Stuffing.  It's not a recipe...it's a skill!

The Quack Shack

The Englishman wanted to park his car.  In our driveway.  In the exact spot where the cinderblock duck compound was erected.  Selfish.  He also didn't believe that the former duck house, which had since been christened Cluckingham Palace for our non-existent chickens, was an appropriate residence.  He wanted to build a floating structure to leave in the center of the pond, maroon the ducks and pull them in by a rope when we wanted to visit them.  I was horrified at his callousness. I complained to my employees as they had lent a sympathetic ear in the past to my woes.  My employees were not supportive.  Not only did they think it was a great idea, they offered suggestions and even described how to build such a structure.  I waited several days before disclosing the news to the Englishman.  I told him that he would need an old pallet, some styrofoam and a barrel.  He scoffed and reached for his graph paper, pencil, compass and protractor.  I retreated to count my shoes.  Again.

So during one of the hottest spring weekends in Georgia, the Englishman set out to construct a hexagon-shaped floating duck house. I was given the chore of painting it.  A simple task under normal springtime conditions; however the paint dried as fast as I could apply it.  The result was a clean, white house attached to a bright yellow platform.  A plastic green plank was added to the side so that the ducks could access the platform.  The tin roof was pressed into place with some difficulty and styrofoam was fitted beneath the structure with wire.

The moment had arrived to launch the Quack Shack and discover if it would float.  The Englishman and the English Boy carried the house to the pond and placed it on the back of the rowboat.  The English Boy paddled to the middle of the pond and while we held our breath, the Quack Shack was launched.  Amazingly, it floated!

It was time to introduce the ducks to their new piece of real estate.  I grabbed two ducks from the compound and stuffed them into a canvas shopping bag.  It took a few moments to catch the other two ducks but my persistence paid off as I dropped them into a second shopping bag.  All of the merriment was captured on video by the English Boy.

I placed one quacking and kicking bag into the boat and precariously sat on the edge of the seat while the English Boy paddled toward the white and yellow floating structure.  It looked like a hard-boiled egg.  The Englishman stood on the edge of the dock with the sole task of watching his two duck charges.  As I attempted to push a duck inside the house, the second duck escaped from the grocery bag, waddling freely throughout the boat.  Duck Number One wiggled out of my grasp and plunged into the murky water.  As he attempted to get back into the boat, Duck Number Two leaped out of the boat.  Ducks Three and Four dove from the dock and splashed into the water.

The sun was setting.  The tin roof of the Quack Shack gleamed in the fading light.  The English Boy continued to film his Youtube video, the link to which will never be disclosed by me.  Four ducks floated in the shallows of the pond, poking for food among the lily pads and scorning their beautifully constructed, sea-worthy home drifting nearby.

Yucky Ducky

When I was a baby, my mom made me my treasured stuffed animal.  She stitched the cheerful yellow fuzzy fabric together, filled it with white bits of poly-fil, added large wide eyes and a plastic duck bill.  I dragged my duck everywhere and Mom soon dubbed it Yucky Ducky.

It never occurred to me, not once, how utterly gross ducks are.  I have visited many a duck-laden pond and avoided the mounds, gobs and splatters of duck poop, careful not to mar my completely inappropriate yet fashionably fantastic footwear.  Ducks defecate everywhere.  Its messy.  And for reasons still not clear to me, I thought my ducks would be different.  How could something that looked so cute in the store be so disgusting?

I diligently cleaned their duck crate every day until the newly constructed duck house was ready for tenants.  Relieved and looking for a break, I placed my ducks, who visibly grew each day, inside and dreamed of the once a week cleanings with a smile.  The Englishman, ever observant, pointed out that the duck house would need a proper cleaning at least several times a week.  Annoyed with my lack of duck housekeeping skills and openly criticizing my upbringing, he demonstrated the brushing and scraping techniques required.  Like a street magician, he then produced a bottle of diluted ammonia and water to spritz throughout the interior to destroy germs and other imaginary critters.  After applying a horrifying amount of fly killer, he expertly tossed fresh sawdust chunks onto the floor and into the crevices.

Two days later, under the Englishman's watchful eye, I crawled into the duck house cursing his name and uttering impressive vocabulary gems like "Ick" and "Gross" and "OMG" and "Ugh".  I tried out the dust pan and brush technique.  After several minutes, I asked the Englishman to bring me the shop vac.  He refused and suggested that I, "Carry on and remain calm".  I scraped poo from the floors, the walls, the doors and even places that the darn ducks couldn't even fit!  It was dark by the time I had finished my task and I still needed to catch my ducks and return them to their house.

In the morning, it was painfully clear to me that duck house cleaning was going to be a daily chore.  During the night, the ducks had eaten all of their food.  I wondered if I was feeding them too much.  A quick check with my online duck sources revealed "no".  Unable to muster the energy to clean the duck house again, I added a second piece of trellis to the driveway cinderblock "duck compound" and began leaving them there permanently.  They had a pool, food and a secure space with shade.  They looked happy and I was happy.  Clean-up was a snap with the blast of the garden house.

The Englishman noticed the duck quarters after a few days, possibly due to the fact that he couldn't park his car there.  He was not amused.  He told me that it was time to paint the inside of the vacant duck house in order to preserve the bare wood from further mutilation.  He assured me that this would help with the clean up.  I was in favor of a putty color to match the duck poo but he insisted on white.  First, I had to clean the duck house.  Again.

I half-heartedly crawled back inside with a trash bag and began shoveling duck dung into the lawn bag.  The Englishman, in a display of solidarity, grabbed the hand brush to show off his superior cleaning abilities.  After a few moments, he dropped the brush and disappeared.  I could hear him rummaging in the garden shed.  He soon returned with an extension cord and the shop vac!  I glared at him as he smugly sucked up sawdust and waste, making quick work of the task and avoiding eye contact with me.

We quickly applied white paint to the floors and walls, leaving it to dry overnight in the Georgia heat.  The inside looked pure, clean and immaculate.  In fact, several days later, it still looked pure, clean and immaculate.  Four yucky duckies still resided happily in their cinderblock compound while their perfect duck house gleamed bright yellow and white - a solid architectural masterpiece in the garden.  A brilliant success and victory for me:  no ducks...no yuck!

Splish Splash...Four Ducks Taking a Bath

Got water? Just add ducks! Not only are they natural swimmers, they absolutely love it. The first time I gently placed each feathery duckling in the dogs’ green plastic turtle pool, they explored their new environment tippy-toe style on their webbed feet. Gingerly they each removed one foot and then the other. Suddenly four perfect baby ducks floated on the water’s surface.

Later I added old tile “pilings” to the water and a makeshift wooden ramp on the outside so the ducks could easily enter and exit their turtle “pond”. I laughed out loud as each duckling tested their water skills with such Olympic feats as diving, underwater record-breaking breath holding and free-style swimming.

It was immediately obvious that the largest of the four ducklings had mastered the art of water-proofing. Its feathers were perfectly dry while the other three had dripping yellow fluff plastered to their shivering bodies. Goose bumps were visible and their water time needed to be limited. Over the next few days, each duckling added water-proofing to their preening routine and all expressed a firm preference to remain in the pool instead of dry ground.

Their growth during this short time surprised me as their bodies’ lengthened legs and webbed feet thickened and they abandoned their futile attempts at swimming in their water bowl. I suspected that the ducks may have been a bit older than my earlier estimations.

As the Englishman steadily worked on creating a more suitable indoor and protected environment, we began to leave them in a roughly constructed circle of cinderblocks layered in three rows. I added a piece of lattice to prevent hawks and other predators’ access to a duck buffet. The plastic green turtle pool took center stage and was a crowd pleaser.

The ducklings were quite content with their outdoor play pen and happily floated in their pool from sun-up to sun-down. When I scooped them up at the end of each day to return them to their indoor quarters, they loudly peeped their displeasure with me, but quickly resigned themselves to their other favorite activities of eating and sleeping. I would check on them once more before turning out the light, pausing briefly to listen to their peeps and chirps while they gently dreamed of water.

Peep Show

Four dogs immediately knew that something had changed.  Four noses sniffed my clothing, inspecting each fold, uninterested in the wavy bacon treats I offered in my hand.  Four sets of eyes watched as I set up an old dog crate on the sun porch.  Keenly they stared as I lined the bottom of the crate with newspaper and reinforced the sides with cardboard precisely measured at twenty inches using my quilting ruler and rotary cutter.  I attached a heat lamp at the top and added a sleeping platform lined with old flannel at the back.  Food and fresh water was placed in a garden tray at the front.  All that was left to do was to just add ducks.  After removing four stubborn dogs from the sunporch I did just that.

Four dogs drooled on the sliding door glass, fogging up their view.  I decided it was time to introduce the dogs to the ducks, one dog at a time with the help of the Englishman.

Molly, who had celebrated the second anniversary of her twelfth birthday according to the Englishman, was a perfect lady.  She glanced in the crate, turned away as if to avoid appearing rude and returned to the house.

Chase watched the ducks intently.  Rudeness did not concern him in the least.  Chase pointed.  His paw trembled.  When a long strand of saliva pooled at his paws, I removed him from the porch.

George pushed and pawed and barked.  Charlie, who was vertically challenged, prodded and probed the lower portions of the crate with his needle-like nose.  The ducks were oblivious to the dangers lurking outside the shelter of their crate.  The Englishman was not oblivious and insisted that I find out how long it would be for the ducks to grow up enough to have a permanent outside residence and defend themselves against the four-pack.

Like any other urban farm girl, I turned to Google.  After typing in my search words, I found a blog created by a couple, who like me, were clueless in duck care.  They had two dogs to introduce to the ducks and recommended ignoring the advice from the duck book (apparently one does exist).  

According to the blog, ducks don't differentiate between a human and a dog.  It's all the same to the duck.  This did not seem like a good thing to me.  This couple hatched their own ducks and documented their rapid growth on a daily basis.  At four weeks, the ducks were old enough to stay outside.  They unfortunately did not indicate whether the ducks could beat up the dogs at four weeks, although they did state that it took about a week before the dogs began to ignore the ducks.  
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Armed with my new information, I boldly relayed my findings to the Englishman.  He asked me the age of our ducks.  Reluctant to display my complete ignorance, I returned to the blog that I was now consulting religiously and compared a duck to the daily photos posted.  I decided that my ducks were two weeks old.  The Englishman smugly quipped that I had two weeks to build a duck house.  My green ideas of re-purposing an old wooden dog crate or using a couple of pallets from work were rejected.  Back to the blog.  I bookmarked the detailed instructions and pictures on a custom duck house and pen.

The Englishman seemed temporarily satisfied with my plan and we decided to work with the dogs and ducks a bit more.  With the ducks roaming freely on the sunporch and our dogs in a choke hold, we spent time with each with mixed results.  Molly continued to ignore them.  Chase no longer drooled but was completely focused on the fowl.  George growled.  George did not approve of ducks...especially baby ducks.  Charlie made strange sounds with his mouth.

After the weekend was over, the ducks were visibly stronger and the four-pack was back to poking around in the yard doing dog things.  What I believed to be impossible, the mixing of ducks and dogs, seemed a bit more feasible with my creatures great and small.  Now in the evenings, I was more comfortable leaving the door to the sunporch open.  I could catch a glimpse of the dogs sitting quietly in front of the cage watching the peep show within for a few minutes at a time, before finally losing interest and returning to the comfort and familiarity of the house and their dog beds.

Just Wing It

I should be banned from the Tractor Supply store in the Spring.  In the center of the store, six silver galvanized barrels with heat lamps were coralled together bearing tiny balls of fluff with feet.  Dust bunnies they were not.  Peeps, tweets, flutters and pecks emerged from within as I peered over the railing into the bins below.  I smiled at the perfect webbed feet, the tiny bills and awkwardness of a pile of baby ducks.

I wanted one.  I needed one.  I demanded one.  I stomped my foot and pouted.  The man in my life told me "NO", firmly in his English accent that made it clear there was no room for discussion.  Still, I tried to reason that we had a pond which was perfect for ducks.  I was reminded, quite sensibly, that we also had four dogs, one of which was a bird dog.

I complained to my friends about the unfairness of the situation.  I lamented over the fact that the ducks were super cute.  I whined.  I stomped my foot and pouted.  They listened to my plight of woe and agreed that I did need a duck.  I deserved a duck.  Two weeks later, when I arrived at work on my birthday, I was presented with four ducks.  Fearing the reaction of the "Englishman", I emailed him a photo of my present.  He immediately responded with a single word: BOLLOCKS!!!

Undeterred,  I pretended to not understand the British slang and embarked on a needed trip to the local Tractor Supply store to buy a book on ducks.  There were none.  How a store that offered ducks for sale did not also sell instructions on how to raise them confounded me.  No duck food, no duck books....just lots of live baby ducks!  

I bought a chicken starter kit since it seemed close enough.  As I left the store in my five-inch Betsey Johnson floral wedges, I decided to just wing it.  How hard could raising ducks be?  Clutching my Mary Jane's Farm magazine in one hand and my peeping cardboard carrying case of ducklings in the other, I made my way home, eager to embrace my inner farm girl.