Feed stores can be dangerous places to visit in the spring. Especially dangerous if you are inclined to swoop in and pick out tiny, cheeping and feathery things and bring them home with you. It sounds simple at first: they need food, water, warmth, and you will provide all the snuggling necessary to make your new little friends feel happy and comfortable.

Soon, if your experience goes at all like mine, your little friends will feel very comfortable and whatever room in your house you have chosen to be their shelter for the first few weeks will begin to take on new character in the form of scattered shavings, a few chicken droppings that you have failed to clean up, and the sounds of cheeping at increased volume.

You might ask yourself at this point: what have I done? What have I gotten myself into?

Or you could be like me and return to the feed store. Why? Because I have always wanted a couple of little black ducks. That’s why.

There they were: one was all black and one had a yellow patch on her chest. I didn’t know then, and through the fortunate intervention of whatever fowl deity determines who lucks out, I came home with two adorable female ducklings. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time, and if I hadn’t brought home two females then, it may have informed my decision-making later on. But there I was: snuggling and fussing over two adorable black ducklings with tiny feet and a lack of coordination that kept me laughing.  

I knew one of them had to be named Daffy. (If you’re a fan of Daffy duck cartoons, this might make no sense, but Daffy was her name from the beginning.) We called the other duckling Dolly. They made a thorough mess of the laundry room because ducklings are, well, ducklings after all. 

Fast forward to an “emergency” phone call that pulled me out of class one day the following fall. Our daughters were enjoying the backyard and the fowl, and apparently the ducks were having a really good time. 

“Mom? I think one of your ducks is a male.”

“Um…I don’t think so. There are two eggs every day, and ducks only lay one egg per day.”

“Well…one of them is ‘acting’ like a male, Mom.”

“Hm…well, I have to get back to class now…”

And that should have been my first window into the characteristic behavior of ducks and what my life with ducks (and chickens) might be like later on.

Spring arrived, and with it–a dog who decided to adopt us. She was just passing by, tired and thirsty and on the run. We checked with animal shelters, ran newspaper ads, and almost were persuaded to adopt “Lucy” (as Steve called her) when her motivation to join us became all too clear: “Lucy” was interested in our fowl, and not in a good way.

I’ve never heard Maile scream quite like this before. Lucy, who had been showing her inclination to chase down all things feathered, had managed to escape through the back door and had grabbed Daffy. The next few minutes were full of blood, feathers, shouting, and panic. Someone grabbed the dog; I grabbed Daffy and wrapped her in a towel. I (or someone) called the local animal hospital and thankfully they were open just long enough for me to dash over there with Daffy. The vet stitched her up (stitches everywhere) and sent us home with antibiotics. For the next two weeks, Daffy lived in our second bathroom. I visited several times a day, and learned how to wrap up a duck tightly in a towel, pry her bill open with one hand, and administer liquid antibiotics with the other hand. The aftermath of all of this care was hard on the bathroom but had a pronounced effect on Steve, who swears he will never be able to look at split pea soup again.

She persevered and healed quite nicely from that misadventure, but when her feathers began to come back in, she was rapidly beginning to turn white, with a smattering of black in her plumage. In fact, Daffy outlived her early partner, Dolly. (Oh, and Lucy found a happy new home with some people who had just lost their beloved dog.)

Of course, since I still felt the pull of the feed store in the spring, I acquired several new chicks and—I couldn’t resist of course–two new black ducks. No sooner had I added them to the flock, but I popped in to “visit” our closest feed store and boom: there they were–two little ducks, one with intriguing coloring, and the other, a small fluffy yellow duck who followed the other duck everywhere it went. 

These last two already knew something I didn’t know. It quickly became apparent that “Wilson,” the duck with interesting colors was male. And Sierra, the little fluffy one, was his adoring female companion. The two black ducks, you ask? Yes. I also had acquired a Clarence and his little friend, Sierra.  

One day, before the big sexual identity reveals, I took all the little ducks out to meet Daffy. They followed her all around the yard. It was my very own Make Way for Ducklings moment, but as Daffy came past me with this little flock of admirers, she cast a significant look in my direction that clearly read “What have you done to me?”

Ah cuteness. Ah serenity. They all loved dipping in the pond. They all loved scouting the weeds at the edges of the yard together, and they seemed like their own happy and innocent little ducky community. 

And then came the day that a battered and bedraggled Daffy emerged from the chicken house one morning, and I was aghast at what had happened to her. Apparently, those two male ducks were just a bit rough. I doctored her wounds, and she wiggled out of my arms, determined to…not flee. Not hide. Nope. 

She began to bob her head, playfully calling to the male ducks over her shoulder. She was her own provocatively styled Mae West!  This was not “Hey! Stay away from me!” This was: “Hey boys, I’m back!”

I relayed this story to Steve over pizza that evening. Daffy was, by this time, an older duck in my estimation. Suddenly, we had two active male ducks, and she was living her best life! Steve put it this way: Daffy became eligible (in duck years) for Social Security and discovered her sex life all at one time!

We couldn’t keep Clarence and Wilson. That’s a story of my own failure to understand the nature of male ducks and their proclivity for sexual encounters with both ducks and chickens. 

I’m apparently still learning that lesson, because I acquired two other ducks two years ago, and again: one is a male. Nigel and his friend, Penelope need a new home. We may have a lead.

Meanwhile, Daffy and Luna have enjoyed a peaceful co-existence with our current chicken flock. Daffy, at 10 years of age, has waddled (ever more slowly) out to the orchard with the chickens and Luna, and back again at night. She has brought up the rear of this parade for the last 2-3 years, sometimes tripping over obstacles, but mostly navigating the distance successfully with pronounced and cumbersome, but successful momentum. A couple of nights ago, Steve said he just reached down and carried her most of the way to the barn for the night.

Last night, just as I was dropping off to sleep, someone in the pen was quacking loudly. I sat up, wondering if everyone was all right. But the quacking settled down. Steve found Daffy quiet and still this morning–no signs of distress. But she is gone. I will miss our sweet girl.