Months of hosing off the deck or walkways or wherever the duck waddled, months of dashing outside mop or broom in hand to protect small, defenseless children, I was “done with duck raising.” Time for releasing our assailant. Quackers, clearly, outgrew our domain; one-half acre was insufficient territory. He needed a more expansive spread, say the entire pond at the bottom of our hill, that extended up a ravine, and then into pastures. The hills beyond our house were nearly limitless—expanding into 1500 acres of wilderness, a regional park. Quackers could roam forever!
I gathered the family and discussed the plan. We would “release” Quackers at our neighborhood pond, and figured that time of release was now. Our neighborhood pond usually harbored a few “drop-in” ducks, which during the summer migrated to other pastures and ponds. In fall, when the pond dried up, it became home to white egrets and blue herons, who feasted on local fish and frog “jerky” or the few remaining pond inhabitants. During winter and spring, flocks of migratory birds, e.g. Canadian geese and mallards visited. But, in summer, only kids with fishing poles and occasional, solitary, wayward birds idled by the pond, both hoping for a nibble. Since pond visitors were sparse from June to August, Quackers could nestle in his new home; establish his new territory before the onslaught of other visiting ducks and geese in September. What a plan!
We found a large orange crate in which Quackers could sit, and then with smiles among tears, we marched down the hill, carefully carting the quacking duck. Each little girl sniffled her goodbyes, sure, that he would miss her and she would miss him. Dale brought the camera for prosperity. We would have pictures, if the memories faded. We reached the edge of the pond where Dale softly, tenderly placed the box with Quackers. The five of us plus duck stood our places at the lip of the pond. I focused the camera, ready for action. Nothing happened. We waited—no flapping of wings, no quacking. Silence and no movement. The duck remained in the box, and he was not going anywhere. Quackers looked at Dale, with pleading in his eyes, and he turned his head from side to side to make sure Dale saw both eyes (prey, of course, has eyes on the sides of their head). He waited for his master, Dale, to do something. Dale reached down and removed Quackers from the carton. The duck moved as close as possible to Dale’s size 14 boot, which Quackers knew well, but was actually a safer bet than the unknown but beautiful pond, nearly three times the size of our swimming pool, and 20 times larger than Quackers’s pool. So, we stood—duck, Dale, me, Meg, Allie, and Sam for the longest time. No one moved.
After a few minutes, Dale, with soft and gentle hands that Quackers had never experienced before, picked up the duck. Dale lovingly stroked Quackers’s long white feathers, spoke kind words, and said, “Goodbye. Be strong. Be a duck.” Then, he tossed him as a quarterback would heave a football to a receiver on the far end of a football field. Quackers instinctively flapped, which, of course was useless. He landed with a giant splash in the middle of the pool, because he was such a large bird, and sprinted out of the water as though chased by a hungry predator. Now, he was quacking, loudly, furiously, and shaking. He ran to his master’s side and Dale tried again. In fact, Dale tried to get rid of Quackers at least five times. Each heave matched with a quacking duck, exiting the water faster than before—nearly taking off as a seaplane. After an hour of unsuccessful attempts of introducing Quackers to our pond, we gave up. He was going home. To our house. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Love is Complicated 