I know that when you realize that this month’s offering is about a pet duck dying, many of you will think It was just a duck. And technically, Daffy was just a duck. But she was also much more than just a duck, she was a resident at Critter Cottage for the last nine years. I haven’t yet sorted through all of my feelings on the matter, so I apologize if this column seems a little disjointed. Because I feel disjointed, in that way that many people do when they’ve lost a beloved pet and are trying to make some sense of it all.
Daffy was found as a young domestic duck down by the river by some children. They took her home and begged Mum to let them keep her, but Mum said no. I was called in, then, as a possible adopter. I’d already had some pet ducks, so she was nothing new. The new part was convincing the hubs that bringing her home would be the right thing to do. It was harder than you might imagine, but I can wear the man down when I have to.
So she came to Critter Cottage and settled in with the other two ducks in residence, and life went on. She was let out of her pen in the morning, and she would spend the day ranging about the back garden, testing the mud in different locations to see whether it contained any worms. In the evening, she would be herded into her pen for the night.
The pen had been made by the hubs to my specifications, and I’m pleased to report that no intruder ever managed to break in. When the other two ducks passed on, Daffy had the pen, the yard, and the mud, as well, all to herself. Every so often, I would bring home a dozen worms, or some minnows, and hand-feed them to her. I also put minnows in her pond, just to keep things interesting.
When I found her in an unusual spot, this past weekend, I realized quite quickly that something was very wrong. Upon inspection – and the fact that she had let me pick her up without a fight was very telling – it became clear that she was in the process of dying (I’m sparing you the gory details, here) and that there was nothing I could do about it. I placed her in her pen, kept her company for a time, telling her that it was o.k. to go, if she needed to; that I would miss her terribly; and that I loved her. Then I shut the pen door, knowing she would be dead by morning, and went inside to cry my heart out at this most unexpected turn of events.
I felt horrible. How had I not known something was wrong sooner than I eventually did? What the hell happened to her? I had noticed a small change – so small that it seemed pointless to investigate. Now, I realized, that small change was the only outward indication I would ever get, and it was so small that I shrugged it off. Later that evening, though, the thought came to me: she didn’t want me to know something was wrong. That’s how prey animals operate. They hide injuries and illnesses because that’s how they try to survive. Mind you, that realization didn’t make me feel any better, it just explained the situation.
The hubs was so hoping that we could bury her in the garden that he dug a hole before it was even discussed. But when a previous duck died, one I wasn’t as attached to, we did bury him, with the hubs promising that when Daffy went, I could have her cremated, which is exactly what I did. Thankfully, the hubs didn’t argue, and even filled the hole back in in a timely fashion.
It rained two days after Daff died. Daffy loved the rain. She loved puddles, and, every once in a while, when I looked outside, I’d find her stomping her little duck feet in the water. I actually have no idea why she stomped, I just thought it was cute. When I watched the storm, I realized that I’d never see her stomping again, which saddened the hell out of me.
She liked eating the plants that grew at the back of her pond. She seemed to consider it her own personal salad buffet, and the leaves closest to the edge of the pond were always jagged-looking because of the big bites she’d taken out of them.
She honked like a goose. “Daff, you’re not a goose! Why are you honking,” I would ask her. I never got an answer. It was just her way.
She always thought I was a duck-killing monster, even though wasn’t. It was just that I was so much bigger than she was. Getting her into her pen at night was easy because I would simply walk behind her in the direction of her pen, and she would nervously walk away from me, straight into her pen.
She never wanted me to pick her up – a thing I only did a couple of times over the years, anyway. So I was always surprised and flattered that, in the midst of working on the landscaping in the garden, I would look up to find Daffy lying nearby. She’d already figured out that whenever I started digging, she started getting worms, so at some point, she would mosey over and wait patiently for me to give her some. It was the only time she was ever willing to get close to me, and I had to squat, stretch my arm out to its full length, worms in hand, whilst I looked away from her, in order for her to be willing to take them from me.
I didn’t mind accommodating her. I was, after all, a giant scary thing to her. Indeed, I was happy to give her the best life possible, no matter how much quarreling I had to do with the hubs (think duck minder for when we went on holidays). He could never quite see what the point of duck ownership was, and I could never quite explain it to him, or, no doubt, to you, either. Suffice to say that she was a charming girl with a distinct personality, who will be sorely missed by me, if no one else.
Many times, over the years, the hubs had declared, “No more ducks! When they’re all gone, that’s it!” I don’t know how I feel about that right now. Ducks can live upward of ten years or more, and I don’t know if I want to quarrel with the hubs in order to take on another many-years commitment. I do know this: the household is now much too small. There is one dog, and one cat, and that’s not nearly enough. My soul feels very empty, at this point, and I’m not sure what to do about it. Stay tuned – I’ll figure it out at some point. In the meantime, don’t forget to tell your pets how much you love them – you never know how near the end actually is.