The last week has seen our flock of ducks migrate from their customary sleeping place. Usually they sleep in a white huddle out in the open yard. The open part is the basin of the yard, where the water collects—ducks being water creatures seem the natural rulers of this muddy oasis. Their flock is small, especially in comparison to the mammoth 70 strong cacophony of geese, but they hold what seems to be the genuine inheritance of the ultimate waterfowl.
Even in this cushy seat of supremacy, ducks are skittish things. Billy, when he was here, found they are terrified of light at night. You shine a flash light, or strong mobile phone’s ray out in their midst and they spring as one to half wing and flee. Thus it is easier to herd ducks at night than in day, when they show something near independent thought and cause the flock to zig zag all over the time-wasting place.
They are not overly defensive though, as those honking horrors. Ducks know when they’re bested and waddle off. They make a few indignant cries, but all in all are humble creatures I’m sure Christians would be proud of if the time were taken to compare them to tastier yard birds—like the ever popular chicken. Proud f***ers, those chickens; they probably fill the fields of hell with their strutting ways.
So some real power shifts must have happened recently in the back yard. Imagine my surprise when I open the door after dinner to make my night run to the loo and nearly squish half a dozen plump little guys. With a shooing method learned from Bunica, they scatter in all directions—some even as far as their prior home 20 metres away. It is a seriously bad place for a flock to sleep—in the lane between house and outhouse. Especially in watermelon season when everyone eats about a quarter a melon a piece for desert—those things are mostly water, hence the name. The best way, if I may be allowed to digress, to win a watermelon eating contest is to take giant bites and squish the meat right up to the back of your teeth, lips apart to let all that pink juice out. The juice will fill your belly with sugary goodness in half the time a bowl of rice will.
Messy, but effective.
The opposite of sleeping in the middle of traffic. The ducks flee quacking, wake the geese who crank up their UFO descending sound, and then the cock gets at it—he, it seems, has not been displaced. He sits on his same door-side perch as ever. If it’s particularly bad, the dog will join in, and the 6 inch Alpha next door will respond and suddenly my nightly trip to relieve myself results in a minor panic and the seeds of hatred for lowly things stirs.
Most sad of this is the normally guiltless ducks—I cannot hate them, they are pitiful at worst and barely ever troublesome. Who has kicked them out? The turkeys are roosting up with the chickens, as usual, the geese over behind the cows. There are more of everyone than there was last year (except pigs, they were a serious economic bust) but no one is in the old Duck Place.
I can only conclude one of these robust young things, 5 months old and bursting with puberty has seized the ducky reigns. Is it really a conscious decision on his part to move the sleeping place? Did the popularity of the old wood pile (Chicken Cock King and the trendy brace of lounging turkey teens) lure them across the border land of septic tank?
I tick off the leaders I’ve encountered hereabouts and conclude that despite ducks being commonly thought non-sentient, they may have a tendency seeping up through the rich black soil to make seriously irresponsible decisions.
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