My Summer with Ducks

By Bill Shein
September 26, 2011

Early one morning last May, in a sleepy California town just 20 miles from the Pacific Ocean, eight ducklings emerged into the wider world beyond their shells.

Within hours, the small, fuzzy creatures were placed in a cardboard box along with chopped straw, a heat pack, and a container of green, nutrient-rich gel (just like the green, nutrient-rich gel found in nature).

Then, completing the hatching-day ritual that ducklings have endured for millennia, the box was passed along to the U.S. Postal Service and placed in the cargo hold of a jet aircraft.

Two days later, my phone rang at 7:00 a.m. “Your chicks are here,” reported a postal worker, unaware that the cheeping box contained ducks, not chickens.

“On my way,” I said, excited and ready – after months of obsessive-compulsive preparation – to meet the latest additions to my animal menagerie.

And so began my first summer with ducks. The Group of Eight, as I call them, are now nearly full grown, healthy, happy, and on the cusp of egg-laying. They’re great fun to have around, and entertaining to no end.

And, since I know you’re going to ask, yes, I’ve named them all: Amelia and A.J., the flying Khaki Campbells. Big Roo and Roo, the boy-girl pair of Rouens. Buff and L’il Ping, my Buff Orpington girls. And Forrest and Jenny, the Welsh Harlequin pair who are both stunningly beautiful and, well, [BEGIN HUSHED TONE] a little simple [END HUSHED TONE].

For a month, the ducklings lived in my guest bedroom in a brooder constructed from cardboard and plastic sheeting and filled with pine shavings. I spent endless hours watching as they cheeped, ate chopped lettuce out of my hand, and slept contentedly on my lap. At 10 days or so, we began going outside, where they cheeped, ate chopped lettuce out of my hand, and slept contentedly on my lap some more.

Needless to say, virtually nothing that stick-in-the-mud economists refer to as “productive work” was accomplished during that month. (Sorry, gross domestic product! You’ll have to find growth elsewhere!) But that quiet time with my new ducklings was spiritually and emotionally productive – and, of course, Wall Street has no metric for such things.

My dog companion Ella – a Labrador Retriever mix not known to cozy up to live fowl – quickly learned that these odd creatures were not for eating. And to my great surprise, she soon took on vital duck-protection duties, staying outside to watch over the ducks and bark away foxes (or any noise in the woods that could, just possibly, be a fox). By August, early evenings found her on the back porch with all the ducks gathered ‘round, waiting for me to arrive with their evening meal.

Much to the amusement of friends and family, I dote on the ducks to the point of absurdity. I’ve mastered the art of steering all conversation toward my beloved waterfowl, usually without subtlety:

FRIEND: Hey Bill, do you know what time it is?

ME: Time to tell you about the hilarious thing Amelia did this morning?

FRIEND (yelling): ENOUGH ABOUT THE DUCKS, NERD!

In June I built an impressive, Fort-Knox-inspired coop to keep the ducks secure at night. It turned out well, though I had to learn a lot through trial and error. (Note to first-time coop builders: “Two-by-four” actually means 1.5 inches by 3.5 inches. So plan accordingly, and never, ever admit your ignorance of this basic woodworking measurement. At least not in print.)

These days, with the ducks fully feathered, our days begin with a walk (and in some cases, flight) down to the river with morning coffee and reading material. (My coffee and reading material, not theirs.) The ducks dabble for good eats atop mossy rocks and underwater, wander the riverbank looking for bugs and slugs, and always keep an eye skyward for hawks. Ella the Dog sits nearby, overseeing everything. I often read nothing, mesmerized by the Group of Eight’s quirky habits and unique personalities.

Now, some warn against anthropomorphizing animals and projecting human-like personalities onto them. But each afternoon, when I dress the ducks in period costumes for our Victorian-style tea parties, it’s hard not to view them as small, web-footed people. But maybe that’s just me.

No doubt winter will bring new duck-raising challenges. Even though ducks have the finest down jackets available, managing them in winter will require daily chores outside in the Berkshires cold. But for now, I’m basking in the warm feelings of my first, largely successful summer with ducks, and it feels great.

By the way, if you want to know more about my ducks, feel free to ask. Give me a call anytime.

BILL’S FRIEND: No, don’t! You’ll regret it! I’m not kidding!

——————-

Bill Shein once talked about his ducks – without interruption – for nearly 34 hours.