Duck Heist

Taking a Stroll | Photo by Lee Rawn

                                        Duck Heist

 I visited the university of Manitoba to view the Winter Science Fair, where several of my friends had projects on display. Spotting an enthusiastic crowd outside the psychology department, I wormed my way to the front, finding a box of tiny mallard ducklings. 

     The tightly packed box swayed. Frantic peeping added chaos to their small boxed universe. As I watched, a feisty duck climbed upon the heads of his siblings. His feet flapped from head to head. Reaching the lip of the box, he catapulted to the table and freedom.

     I scooped the escapee with the intention of returning him to the box. Lifting him for a closer inspection, we regarded each other. A wave of affection ignited my heart. Without thought, I lifted the hood of my coat and gently placed the ducking into its warmth. I could feel him settling, pulling my hair over him like a blanket.

     This was clearly a duck heist, but I prefer to think of it as a rescue. We hurried out the door, waited a brief five minutes for the bus and headed back to my house. 

     On the bus, his little head emerged from my hood. Several people gaped in surprise spotting my hitchhiker. He remained calm, snuggling against my cheek, viewing this new landscape.

     Arriving at home, I untangled  feet and wings from my hair and checked for duck deposits. 

     “His name is Jeremiah.” I announced to my roommates. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”

      Setting up a little fenced pen in the basement, I supplied blankets, a light bulb for warmth, water and duck food. Most of the day Jeremiah hung out with me. Being so small, he usually rode in the breast pocket of my shirt. If I had to go out for groceries, he claimed his usual spot inside the hood of my coat. We chatted during the day. (I did most of the talking). And a loving relationship developed.

     As he grew, the pocket was no longer a nesting option. Standing over the sink washing dishes, or cooking at the stove, Jeremiah sat between my ankles. I kept my feet close together to afford him a comfortable perch. At other times, he followed me from room to room. I carried a rag to wipe up any mishaps. 

     My little duck was growing up. His voice lost its baby peeps, and he took his first quacks. Everyday in the later part of the morning, Jeremiah alerted me that the mail had arrived. He followed me to the door, burst through my legs, and quacked at the delighted postman. Jeremiah displayed excellent watch duck qualities.

    “Wait, just wait. I’m almost done.” Jeremiah padded back and forth on the lip of the bathtub. Nightly bathing became our habit. I went first, for obvious reasons. He waited impatiently for me to get out and run cold water to cool down the bath. 

      “Ah, come on, Jeremiah, give me a minute. I sunk into the heat. Shifting from one foot to the other, he extended his neck, -And dove. A string of duck pooh ejected into my bath and I leaped from the tub. “No, no, the water’s too hot.” Too late, the steaming bath washed away the natural oil coating his feathers.

 I lifted him from the bath and wrapped him in a warm towel. His soaked little body shivered. A heating pad under his blankets helped, but it took several days to regain his protective coating. 

        When spring arrived, my boyfriend, Gary and I, decided to return to British columbia. We took a few weeks to pack and during that time I tried to accustom the duck to car travel. He sat on the seat and every so often his head shook, spraying an arch of vomit. The duck was car sick.

      I had trouble myself that way always opting for the front seat, staring straight ahead to cope. Jeremiah was too short to see through the windshield.  Hoping that he would adjust, I continued to drive him around the city. For clean-up, I kept an old towel. 

     A young woman hitchhiked on Corydon Street. I slid the duck closer to me and stopped to give her a ride. 

     “Thanks,” she said, jumping in. “It’s a duck.” she added.

     “I’m trying to get the duck used to car rides,” I explained. I should have been more specific. The woman gave me a wary look. 

     When we reached Osborne Street Jeremiah barfed on my passenger’s leg. 

    How could she have not noticed? I wondered. Scooping up the towel, I rubbed her thigh. 

     “Let me out,” the woman shouted.

     I pulled over. She pinned me with an angry glare and bolted out the door. With regret, I realized that Jeremiah could not handle the trip.

      Gary and I drove Jeremiah to the outskirts of Winnipeg to a duck reserve. There was a cabin on the sight. The man living there was the park ranger. He monitored the comings and goings of ducks and prevented poaching. 

     “This is the tamest duck I have ever seen.” he said, reaching down to give Jeremiah a head scratch. “I will be glad to keep him with me.  Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.

     Years later I lived by a lake. Every so often, a flock of ducks filled my yard gorging themselves on apples. Once after a blustering snowfall, the untouched, shriveled apples fell from the uppermost branches, dotting the snow. The flock, forsaking their southern migration, glided in from the lake. They landed next to the tree, thus avoiding the fresh ridge of snow left by the plow. 

     The fruit must have turned to apple alcohol, hardy cider, for the flock’s waddle seemed more pronounced.  After a satisfying feed they flew away.  …All except one. He continued picking at the apples. Instead of flying, (perhaps he was too incapacitated) he walked unsteadily back to the lake. 

 While struggling up the snow bank, the duck’s feet slipped out from under him and his head arrowed into the snow. Lodged right up to his shoulders, his feet kicked frantically. 

     Laughing I reached for my coat to assist, but he had squirmed his way out.  Watching this goofy lone duck, I thought of Jeremiah and my heart ignited once again.