A while back I mentioned a duck coming off her nest with six ducklings. There are two left. *sigh* I was hoping the last two would make it without insult or injury but like everything else around here, it wasn't destined to be. One of the ducklings is doing great but the other suffered a broken leg. I knew the little thing didn't stand a chance so I caught it and brought it into the house hoping it might have a chance to heal before becoming some predator's supper.
I set up the playpen I use during kidding season. It takes a lot of newspapers to soak up a duck's mess. Not to mention the fact that they smell horrible. Add some antibiotics to the mix and with the ensuing shits... OMG!!! You can hear the shit squirt from the next room. Before you can find a safe place to hide, the odor climbs over you like a thousand fire ants blinding you with pain that you can never imagine unless you have actually had the meat ripped out of your nasal passages with a dull deer antler. Nevertheless, I did the best I could, holding my breath and cleaning the little bastard two or three times daily until I totally ran out of newspapers. I sort of felt good about that but immediately felt guilty for feeling good about it. I need opiates. Then I wouldn't care about a motherfucking thing.
It didn't take long before I discovered the leg was broken in the joint and was knitting back at an awkward angle. Once I ran out of newspapers to line the playpen with, I asked Hubby to take the duckling out and put it down. I really couldn't imagine the little thing having any kind of quality life at all. It didn't work out quite the way I wanted it to. Instead of cracking the duckling's neck, Hubby took the 22 rifle with him. d'oh. He set the duckling down and before he could come around with the rifle, little duckling had run off and disappeared. I wasn't thrilled with that because I've gotten totally sick of the little things being eaten by the bigger things. Little duck was nowhere to be found.
Several days passed and I was certain the duckling had been ripped to shreds by a critter with nasty, pointy teeth when lo and behold, I went to feed the chickens and there it was trying it's best to get into the coop with the laying hens. There are a few ducks in there as well so I thought maybe they would accept the little one. I crashed through the underbrush and fought my way through the briers for nearly half and hour before I finally got my hands on the (enter many expletives) duckling. If it hadn't gotten it's crooked leg stuck in the chicken wire I never would have caught it. I put it with the Mama Duck who has been setting NO eggs all summer hoping that maybe she would think her five months of diligent setting on absolutely nothing had finally paid off. She seemed to be fine with it but that evening the little one was gone again.
Later I found it with it's mother. She didn't want it around at all. I understand where she's coming from. She's worried about protecting the healthy duckling and doesn't want the deformed one around. I can't blame her for that. It's nature's way. Still, that little duckling has fought so hard to survive I can't help but want to help it. Despite it's crooked leg, the little sucker can move pretty damn fast. If I can ever get my hands on it I will do the same thing I did with the last duckling I had to care for (which by the way is huge and beautiful). Maybe if I can protect it until it gets big enough to hold it's own with the older ducks it will be OK. But, I've got to catch the little shit first.
Is there a patron saint for ugly ducklings? I should put him/her on speed dial.
Update... Little ugly duckling has reconciled with her mother and all is well in ducky land. I love it when good things happen.
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