One morning, Allie and Samantha went into the backyard to release Quackers, our family duck, from his nightly penning. Quackers was as hefty and as unwieldy as a squirming two-year child, despite the fact that he was only two months old. He wiggled in Allie’s arms, futilely flapped his nearly full-grown wings, and gave his best efforts at flight, landing him bill-down between the cage and the stack of hay. With his bottom upside down and my girls screaming for help, I ran outside, but it was too late, the damage was done. When we pulled up Quackers, he sustained bird brain damage as a small trickle of blood ran from his bill. Since I was not going to pay staggering emergency vet bills, I consoled my children, and then set Quackers free to stagger about the yard, hopeful that he would not die in front of us. He did not, but he staggered for several days and his behavior became increasingly odd. He no longer walked straight up as a duck should, instead his head turned sideways as though he sustained a sprained neck. Since I was not going to pay for a duck neck brace, we watched and waited. He ate and drank normally, and when in his swimming pool (our kids’ old wading pool), he straightened up and swam straight—in circles. Perhaps this was a muscular trauma; perhaps time would heal the sustained whiplash, until I realized his side-ways waddle was because he could only see out of one eye. Quackers waddled, leading with his “good” or “seeing” eye, which made for a twisted duck. My original diagnosis was undoubtedly correct and I called our neighbor-pediatrician to come up for a brief consult. Dr. B laughed, “This has to be one of the weirdest house-calls in my practice. You know, I usually don’t see ducks.” However, Dr. B. concurred with my diagnosis. A week later, bird brain healed, Quackers regained his lost eyesight, and began turning his head from side to side as though testing out his recovered vision.
At three months, Quackers was developing into a well-fed Pekin, ready for a banquet. He flourished from the exercise and endless supply of food. The exercise came from chasing perceived predators and from herding his “flock” of small children who ran about the yard. At this point, because of Quackers’s animalistic dominance, we became convinced he was a male, although neither my husband nor I was going to “sex” Quackers to be certain. Nevertheless, it was very evident that Quackers was the Alpha-male of the backyard—a near ½ acre with a pool in the middle. Children planned their strategies to reach the swing set at the far corner of the yard. I grabbed a mop to keep Quackers at bay, while the children made a “run for it.” The duck would be stuck, only shortly, as he watched the children run in two opposite directions around the pool. As bird brains go, Quackers had a decision to make—which direction and which innocent victim to attack. Not that he would eat any of them, but countless children from the neighborhood sustained tiny red welts from his bill-bites, as he latched on the thinnest piece of skin and held tight. I was the nurse for many. Once safely atop the play structure, the children were stranded by Quackers, who circled the area, quacked loudly, and waited to strike unaware children who swung too low, or dropped from the rope, or slid down the slide, or jumped off the monkey bars. He was there. Waiting. Quacking. Again, I rescued children, with mop in hand, and defended against possible attack-duck.
Quackers generally challenged anyone who entered our yard, be it dog, cat, raccoon, possum, skunk, turkey, kid, or adult, as though they were intruders into his personal territory. He reigned over his domain of three little girls and their posse, their mother and her friends. My husband, a man of 6 feet 4 inches and 230 pounds of pure, muscular strength, was one of the few creatures that Quackers respected. Perhaps this was because Dale showed Quackers his size 14 boot, gently nudging the duck, always safely in the chest, just like a kicker sends flying a football 50 yards into the field goal. After a few “flying” lessons, the duck learned. He tentatively approached Dale, quacking softly and bowing to him, as though heaping praises, “Oh, Master, may I please come near?” If Dale moved an inch or two, Quackers quickly retreated, proving the established “pecking order” of our household—Dale, then the duck, then me, then all the little girls, and finally, all their friends and visitors.
On hot, summer days when our kids swam in the pool, Quackers patrolled back and forth along the pool fence, blocked from entry, and, of course, quacking loudly without abandon. Such a cruel fate Quackers was given—wings to swim but not to fly, and our pool, small by human standards, was far superior and bigger than his five-foot plastic version. Pekin ducks, such as Quackers, are not bred for flight, so the children were secure, albeit briefly, from brutal duck-attacks, as he could not muster the strength to span the six-foot fence. These hefty birds, bred for more for meat than anything, are perfect for a Thanksgiving or Christmas meal, and that was not that far away.
Love is Complicated 