Untimely Demises

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me again! I hope you're all enjoying the great spring weather we've been having.

A funny thing happened the other week, and it fits right in with what I want to talk about today. I was idling at a four-way stop in downtown Whoville. Up ahead on my left was a small house someone had turned into a knitting supply shop. There were a couple of trees out front, and some grass and a sidewalk. There were cars parked in the street. Across the way was the local grocery store.

As I sat in my car, I noticed a squirrel rooting around in the grass out in front of that knitting shop. I watched him as two women left the building. The squirrel was spooked by those ladies, and did exactly what I thought he was going to do: he ran under a parked car and then out into the street.

I did what I always do in situations like that. I rolled down my window and hollered, "Squirrely! Get out of the road!" I find that yelling works much better than laying on your car horn, though it took me a long time to figure out why: because even after a century of internal combustion engines, animals still don't see cars as predators. Humans, yes. Cars, not so much.

I'll admit that I felt a bit stupid, hollering the way I did. Not because of the squirrel, of course, but because those two women overheard me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the squirrel quickly make his way up a tree while at the same time, two humorless thirty-somethings swivelled their heads in unison, keen to get a look at the crazy broad who talks to animals. The good news is that Squirrely lived to see another day.

A veterinary technician of my acquaintance once claimed that hitting the occasional animal with your car was inevitable. I disagreed with her then, and I still do now. In truth, I suspect that she was looking for a plausible excuse as to why she'd run over so many. As for myself, I've only hit one animal in my forty-five years, and I can tell you, I swerved mightily to avoid him.

The "thunk!' I heard told me that my swerve was unsuccessful. Glancing out the passenger-side mirror, I could see the squirrel's lifeless form at the side of the road. I pulled into the nearest drive and fished the shovel out of the trunk. If nothing else, I would see to it that he wouldn't be flattened into a pancake by the cars behind me. As I scooped him onto the shovel, I noticed that the squirrel was still breathing. Thinking that he probably had internal injuries and needed euthanized, I headed back to my car to pull out the critter carrier, with a view to taking him to the nearest vet.

I had some difficulty with the latches, and apparently the four-odd minutes I struggled with the carrier was the time the squirrel needed to get his wits back. Just as I popped the carrier top, the squirrel sprang to life, ran a couple of circles around my now-frozen body (they bite, you know!), turned what looked like an entirely accidental back-flip, then ran off toward the woods. When I stopped back an hour later and searched the treeline, I found no trace of him. It was an unexpectedly happy ending.

A few weeks before I write these blogs, I give the topic a good think. I'll ask my friends salient questions, get some opinions, listen to stories. Indeed, I invited my friend Bob Tarte (author of such gripping page-turners as Enslaved by Ducks and Fowl Weather - both available at amazon.com) to weigh in on the subject. Bob told me that he's never hit an animal in his fifty-odd years.

When I asked what he attributed his success rate to, he claimed it's because he skateboards everywhere instead of driving. Because by Bob's own admission he's far too lethargic for something as strenuous as skateboarding, I suspect that he simply didn't have the stomach for a detailed coversation about roadkill. Who can blame him?

My friend Aimee, who is, among her many charms, the Director of Humane Ohio (low-cost spay/neuter in six Ohio counties), once told me something about herself that makes me look tame by comparison. She said that in the spring, female opossums are often killed by cars while carrying a pouch-ful of young. Aimee is one of those hardy souls who will pull over to the side of the road and stick her hand in that dead critter's pouch, checking to see if any babies need rescuing. I'm pretty sure I successfully concealed my nausea during that conversation!

On the other hand, it cheered me no end to learn that I'm not the only person with a shovel in my trunk intended for scraping dead animals out of the road. Turns out Aimee and I have both passed roadkill in the street and made mental notes to shovel it out of the road on our way back - only to find that in the interim, someone else (no doubt one of us two) beat us to it! It takes a tender-hearted soul indeed to care about an animal that's already dead.

In a rather alarming coincidence, maybe a week after Aimee told me about female opossums with pouches-ful of babies, I happened to come upon a dead opossum in the road. Pulling my car to the side, I noted grimly that the thing really took a mashing: there were guts all over the place. I may have a tender heart, but I definitely have a weak stomach, too, and there's nothing like critter intestines to give me serious dry heaves. Wanting to scoop the poor creature up on the first try, I gave it one brief glance and discovered to my horror that all those things lying in the road weren't intestines at all. They were dead baby opossums.

There must've been eight or ten of them, all tiny, white, hairless, wormy-shaped things. Say what you will about opossums - and most people tell me they hate them because they hiss (which, by the way, I'd be inclined to do, too, if humans disturbed my peace), but the fact is that if you believe in God - any God, I'm not particular, then you cannot deny that the ugly critters, the mean ones, the hissers, they're all His creatures. And they all have a right to cross the road safely.

My experience with the somersaulting squirrel taught me that some accidents do seem to be inevitable. But I find that, more often than not, most folks just aren't paying attention. I know this because any number of you have had vehicular near-misses with me while you chatted away on your cell phone. Or tried to discipline your kids in the back seat. Or fussed with your groceries/briefcase/whatever else took your attention from the road.

And while they may seem like nothing more than nuisance animals to you, you might want to consider the possibility that your deity is unimpressed with the money you toss in the basket on Sundays, but is instead very interested in why you gave his lesser creatures such little regard. We're all going to have to answer for ourselves one day - or at least I hope so - and I'd love to be a fly on the wall up there, listening to people's excuses as to why they didn't go back and check on that critter they hit on their way to Somewhere Important.

Every single day, as I drive around Whoville, I see construction workers building new shops, new restaurants, new crap that we don't need, all the while bulldozing the one thing His critters do need: habitat. And we never give it back. You'll never see Wal-Mart tearing down one of their ubiquitous stores in order to give some land back to the local skunks. Seeing all that new construction, and knowing that the people responsible don't give a second thought to all the creatures they've displaced, depresses the hell out of me. It's no wonder so many of them end up in the road - they've got nowhere else to go!

So please, folks, try to be a little mindful, the next time you're in your car. How would you feel if some fool babbling away on his cell phone hit your pet and kept on going? I know that skunks and opossums and the like don't seem terribly important in the grand scheme of things, but God made them all for a reason, and I think it's safe to assume that when you kill one of His critters, you kill a little piece of Him as well. That won't look good on your resume.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, enjoy this beautiful spring weather, and please be kind to all the critters!

That Incorrigable Duck!

Hi Folks!

Hey, how 'bout this spring-like weather?! Makes me want to go out and play!

I've put off writing a follow-up about Pretty Boy's second stint in my tub not because the story has an unhappy ending, but because he was such a shit while he was here, I'm still reeling from it! As you may recall, the ducks are in the midst of the spring mating ritual down at the pond. The drakes are chasing the girls around, they're also chasing the other drakes away from their conquests, and the poor girls just look harried and worn out. It's not a pretty sight.

I guess I didn't realize how strongly those duck hormones rage at this time of year, but I'll never make that mistake again! Because for the three days that Pretty Boy was in my bathroom, he spent all his waking hours looking for trouble. He poked his bill into the shelves he could reach, he banged his way around the room, and, in one astonishing instance of duck rage, he yanked my full-sized bath towel off the rack. When I walked into the bathroom to investigate all the noise, I found my towel lying in a heap on the floor.

I said in my book - and it bears repeating here - that when you mess with nature, nature will find a way to mess back. Instead of a complacent duck in my tub, I had an incensed, hormone-driven creature being compelled by forces that he couldn't control if he wanted to. Why I fail to see these things in the course of events is beyond me; hindsight truly is 20/20.

In any case, I managed to snag an appointment with Dr. Chrys, who was, apparently, back from house-hunting in Germany. I'm told that her last day at the animal hospital will be May 31st. She'll be sorely missed. Dr. Chrys looked Pretty Boy's eye over carefully, and pronounced it infection-free. Thank God! She cleared him to go back to the pond ASAP, and gave me a salve to put in that eye once a month as a preventative measure. All the while, Pretty Boy was as bitchy with Dr. Chrys as he had been with me. I left the animal hospital and drove him directly to the pond.

There is an interesting aside to this latest duck adventure. In an effort to keep the car-time crabbing to a dull roar, I opened the top of the carrier so that Pretty Boy could stand up straight and get a look at things. He and the carrier were in the front passenger's seat, so I had a clear view of what happened during the drive.

What happened during the drive was this: Pretty Boy stuck his head up out of the carrier and suddenly realized he was flying. I don't need to remind you that Pretty Boy is a flightless duck - and I don't know whether he even has any concept of flight, given that he's never once flown at all. But something about the movement, the speed, the sense of being above the ground, struck a chord in him, and he was captivated.

Pretty Boy stood motionless in the carrier. Once, on the highway, a tractor-trailor passed us. He tilted his head to get a better look at it. "Geese!," I announced, for lack of an explanation he'd understand, "big honking geese, Pretty Boy!" During that ride, he never once bitched. He didn't even poop.

It was terrific fun being able to give my favorite duck an experience that he'll otherwise never have on his own. The look of rapture on his goofy duck face was worth all the bathroom tantrums he threw, and then some. I don't know whether duck brains have any capacity for memory - although I think they must do, since they've remembered who I am for the last seven years - but I certainly hope so. Particularly in light of the fact that he'll forever more be missing half a wing, I really hope that Pretty Boy retains that "I'm flying!" feeling for the rest of his life. He deserves no less.

So, another duck story with a happy ending. When I dropped him off at the pond, Pretty Boy made a beeline for Girlfriend Duck, exchanged greetings with her, then proceeded to chase the other drakes away from his lady. Things are apparently back to "normal," or whatever passes for it during mating season.

I've already done some egg-hunting - and I've already found a few, despite the current vagaries of the weather. I'm looking forward to summer, when the hormone-addled behavior subsides, and my guys get back to being The Gang. In the meantime, I have a new respect for the power of nature, which revealed itself through an angry duck and an innocent bath towel that was in the wrong place at the wrong time!

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

The Ungrateful Duck In My Tub!

Hi Folks!

Welcome back!

Well, as you can see from the title of this blog, I was a bit too optimistic about Pretty Boy's eye responding to the antibiotics. I could've sworn that the infection was clearing up, but when I looked him over yesterday, I decided that I didn't want to take any chances. So I ran a bunch of errands and got myself mentally prepared for another week of growling ingratitude.

I grabbed Pretty Boy today as he was availing himself of the pile of corn. Thank goodness he's fairly easy to catch. He appeared to resign himself to his fate quite quickly, settling down in the carrier as he did for the ride to my place. He didn't even make his usual escape attempts, but just laid there listening to the radio along with me.

I had some trouble coming up with suitable nest material. I'd raked up all my leaves last November, after all. I emailed my friend, "Enslaved by Ducks" author Bob Tarte, asking for bedding suggestions. Bob wrote back that the rare times he and wife Linda had had a duck in the house, they'd used towels, which, he remarked, they'd had to wash a LOT! Given Pretty Boy's habit of pooping every 12-odd minutes, using towels as bedding was one of the few suggestions Bob's made that I'm gonna pass on! In fact, I found some leftover leaves hiding under my shrubs in the back yard. I raked those into a basket, and I'm really hoping there'll be enough to last seven days.

I set out the usual dishes of water, cracked corn, and duck pellets. Pretty Boy dug into both food bowls as though he hadn't eaten in weeks. Since the grass around here hasn't greened up yet, I made a quick run to the grocery store for something fresh and tasty. Not being a veggie eater myself, nothing on offer at the store looked the slightest bit compelling. I remember Bob telling me that he feeds his fowl all sorts of things, like kale, lettuce - even chopped up hard-boiled eggs. Yuck! Seems a little canabalistic, doesn't it?!

In any case, I ended up buying a bag of spinach, another of watercress, and a head of green leaf lettuce. The bag of Cheetos is for me. I chopped up portions of all three vegetables and put them in a bowl. Why I do this is beyond me - it's not as if the ducks eat off plates out at the pond, for heaven's sake! I set the bowl of greens next to the other bowls of feed and left Pretty Boy alone.

While I was enjoying a cup of tea and some of the aforementioned Cheetos, I heard various banging noises emanating from the bathroom. I'd already duck-proofed the place, so I didn't get up right away and investigate. When I finally did have a look, it appeared that my favorite duck had sneezed right in the bowl of greens, for they were scattered all over the room! I think he might've actually eaten some, though, which pleases me no end.

So that goofy duck is back for another week of eyedrops and healing. In spite of what I said in a previous blog, I've chosen not to bring Girlfriend Duck along. Having discovered that Ducky (who's been hanging around with the couple) is actually a drake, I'm satisfied that he'll look out for Girlfriend Duck while Pretty Boy's away. My only concerns at this point are whether the eyedrops will take care of the problem, and (in a strictly selfish vein) how much duck poop I'm going to have to contend with!

That's all for now, folks. I need to go put Pretty Boy in the tub for some water time. It sounds like he's getting restless in there. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

The Great Crayfish Rescue!

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by!

I want to tell you about an interesting experience I had yesterday. We've been having some spring-like temperatures on and off for a couple of weeks, and yesterday was a fine example: the sun was shining, the sky was a brilliant blue, and I was in desperate need of some exercise. I set off for a walk around the neighborhood late in the afternoon.

I usually walk around this area filled with nothing but ranch houses; visually, it's pretty boring. Everyone's inside waiting for warmer weather, so I don't even get the pleasure of a wave or a "hello!" On walks like that, I generally just let my mind wander, paying little or no attention to what's around me. Luckily, though, when the leaf in the street started walking toward me, I had the presence of mind to stop and get a better look.

You may have noticed from pictures on my website that I wear glasses. The prescription is up-to-date, too, so I can't blame my poor vision on old lenses. Personally, I think that wires get crossed in my brain and don't translate things properly, for the "leaf" that I initially saw walking toward me turned out to be a very large crayfish! I haven't seen one of those since I was a kid!

You can imagine my surprise. How on earth did a water-critter end up on the pavement a good mile away from the nearest creek?! I wondered if the over-flowing drains had anything to do with it. Like, maybe the poor thing got swept away by a strong current and ended up being spit out of a drainage grate in the street. It was the only explanation I could come up with.

He looked an awful lot like a spider with all those legs. And I hate spiders. But there was no question of leaving him in the street to be run over. Moving him into someone's yard didn't seem to fit the bill, either. He belonged in a creek, and there just so happens to be one running through the property behind my back yard. Gingerly, I picked the critter up and set him in the palm of my gloved hand. He remained there, immobile, for so long, that I thought I'd killed him. Turned out he was just taking stock of his new situation.

I wasn't terribly keen to cut my walk short so I kept going, crayfish in tow. I must've looked ridiculous, walking down the street staring at my open hand! When I rounded the last corner, changing direction just enough for the sun to shine down on the newly-christened "Bubby," the crayfish seemed to wake up. Now he wanted to walk, too, and I had to keep putting one hand in front of the other as he walked across them in an earnest attempt at escape.

I made a quick stop at my house to grab the camera: I wanted some proof that this rescue really happened because I was fairly certain that even the people who know me wouldn't believe me. I put Bubby in a bowl that he couldn't crawl out of, took a few snaps, then made my way to the creek.


Owing to all the snow we've gotten lately, which is now melting considerably faster than the ground can absorb it, the creek was moving fast and high. I entertained more than a few passing thoughts about the possibility of my falling in and being swept away, and concluded that I really didn't want to go swimming just yet. So I endeavored to be extra careful.

When I told this story to Mandy out at the Healing Barn, she teasingly asked me whether I'd weighed the crayfish's new homesite options, or just tossed him down any old place. It must be said that Mandy relishes every opportunity she can find to zing me, and I handed her this one on a silver platter! I mean, of COURSE I chose his new homesite carefully! Hell, I spent a good ten minutes in a lather of indecision over the area on one side of the bridge, which consisted mainly of broken chunks of pavement, and the other side of the bridge, which was mostly twigs and the usual sort of detritus you find creekside.

Twigs and detritus are, of course, preferable to chunks of pavement. But there was a hitch: the twiggy area could only be got to by first passing through a couple of trees with branches full of thorns longer than my fingers! Once I made it past that obstacle, then there was the loose earth to worry about: I wasn't sure whether I was actually standing on solid ground or just a bunch of sticks that were floating at water's edge.

I know what you're thinking. "Jeez, Kelly, all this fuss over a stupid crayfish! Why bother?" My answer is, "Why not bother?" Where do you draw the line and stop helping? It's o.k. to help dogs and ducks, but the crayfish of the world are on their own?! I swear to you that I don't go looking for these things, but there he was, a critter in need, so I stepped up to the plate and helped. He most surely would've died otherwise, and I didn't want that on my conscience.

So I trod very carefully on the sticks and twigs. I chose a spot where he could rest and take stock first, and then hop in the water when he was ready. I picked him up out of the bowl and gently set him down. Then I crouched there, waiting, to make sure he knew what to do. After considerable assessment on his part, Bubby slowly made his way across the sticks until he found a place he felt comfortable with. Watching for a few more minutes while nothing happened, I concluded that he was indeed where he wanted to be and I carefully made my way back through the obstacle course.

That's where the story ends, folks. I'm hoping that Bubby lives happily ever afer, but I'll never know for sure. Some rescues are like that: you do your best, then you set them free and hope for a good outcome. If nothing else, this story certainly proves that the Critter Lady will rescue just about anything!

In other news, Pretty Boy got his last Baytril pill today. His eye infection seems to have cleared up. Dr Susan - who stitched up his torn eyelid last November - said very firmly that in her estimation, birds need two good feet, two good wings, and two good eyes. We already know that Pretty Boy's half a wing short, there, but I take the "two good eyes" part very seriously, so I'll have Dr. Chrys check him out next week, just to be on the safe side.

Well, that's all for now, folks! Thanks so much for stopping in! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

That Troublemaking Duck!

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by again.

Well, I should've known that the next duck problem would involve the same duck who's been at the center of every other problem! Pretty Boy is just prone to bad luck, I guess. I'd been noticing that his eye looked funny, at the last few feeds. His third eyelid was partially covering his eye - the same eye we'd had all that trouble with last November. I couldn't imagine what the problem was, and to be honest with you, I spent a day or two procrastinating before I made an appointment with Dr. Chrys.

It's not that I don't worry about the ducks - you know I do. It's just that taking them to the vet's office is a hassle of epic proportions. First there's the grab 'n go, wherein I scoop up the duck in question, try to wrap my arms around his wings before he can leverage them in an escape attempt, then chuck him into the waiting critter carrier. That's probably the easiest part of the exercise.

On the drive to the animal hospital, Pretty Boy is guaranteed to poop several times in the carrier. In the middle of winter, with all the windows up, it's not the nicest smell I can think of. But Pretty Boy's not a big fan of these forced vet visits, so a puddle or two to underscore his feelings is understandable. He'll go on to leave several souveniers in the exam room, as well.

Because these visits tend to be last-minute, the kind staff at the hospital squeeze us in between several other clients. So once they put us in an exam room, we tend to be there for a good twenty to thirty minutes before Dr. Chrys comes in. I'll let Pretty Boy out of the carrier, and he'll spend some time investigating the room. He always has an uncanny knack for locating the door, but when I opened it, on this latest trip, and offered to let him wander down the hall, he declined. He chose instead to hunker down under the exam table, facing the wall.

He does that out at the pond, too. I have a picture I took of him a year or so ago, during a summer feed. I was sitting on the ground, surrounded by ducks, and when I looked around to take stock of things, I found Pretty Boy about eight feet away, hunkered down on his tummy, with his back to the crowd. It was the funniest thing, like he'd had enough of the all the ducks and just turned his back on us. When I called to him, he refused to look around. That's Pretty Boy: a little wierd but definitely his own duck!

In any case, Dr. Chrys finally came in to have a look at her favorite duck. Some things had changed since she'd seen him last: most notably, his attitude had taken a turn for the worst. During his time in my bathtub, I gave Pretty Boy free reign to express every feeling he had that week - and judging from his comments, all those feelings were distinctly negative! But I understood. After all, I wouldn't want to be held hostage in some strange, stinky place, comepletely alone and worried about my Girlfriend Duck and all the others. So I let him have his say and I didn't try to sweet talk him out of being crabby.

Now, though, he was using his extensive vocabulary of honks and growls on Dr. Chrys! She didn't take it personally - she understood that he wasn't happy about having been rudely yanked away from his pile of corn at the pond. I told her my observations about his third eyelid, and upon close examination, Dr. Chrys agreed that there did seem to be an infection in his eyelid. She said that Dr. Susan's surgery on the torn eyelid had clearly been a success, but that Pretty Boy might now be prone to difficulties related to the original trauma. Rats!

Dr. Chrys administered some eyedrops to get the duck started, then handed me the usual Baytril regimen - half a pill crushed up in some bread chunks once a day, and, if the antibiotic didn't do the trick, she gave me a bottle of eyedrops as well, just in case. Oh, crap! Not another duck in my tub!!! Determined to avoid that at all costs - if for no other reason than that mating season is upon us, and how would his two girlfriends hold up for a week without him? - I found myself having to re-learn how to be smarter than my favorite duck, in order to get those pills down his gullet.

I know what you're thinking: jeez, Kelly, if you're not smarter than the average duck, then you really have problems!!! You'd think that, but I'm here to tell you, sometimes humans are so busy trying to think outside the box, they don't bother to think like the critter they're dealing with. So let's break it down here: I'd just dragged Pretty Boy off to the vet, who man-handled him and put drops in his eye. Once I released him at the pond, he wasn't inclined to get close to me for a while. Which meant that he wouldn't take the proffered bread chunks out of my hand like he ordinarily would. Now what do you do? He's gotta have his crushed up pill every day, so now what do you do?

Believe it or not, it took me a couple hours of anxious examination of the problem before I came up with the solution. Pretty Boy wasn't going to take the bread chunks out of my hand no matter what. That left the one thing I knew he would do: eat them in the water. I could toss the chunks to him one at a time, and the greedy little stinker would eat them right up. Which is exactly what he did. Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the hardest ones to find, don't you think?

In any case, we're still in the middle of the Baytril regimen, so it's early days yet, but I'm cautiously optimistic that his eye is clearing up and the swelling is going down. In the event that I'm wrong, I'm absolutely prepared to bring him home and do the whole bathtub-and-eyedrops routine again - although this time, I think I'd bring along Girlfriend Duck to keep him company. I'd hate for her to worry about where he'd gotten to.

That's all for now, folks. I'll keep you posted on that silly duck's latest medical issue. Here's hoping he heals up just fine without another visit to my bathroom! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

Spring

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me today! I know it's been a while since I posted my last blog - I've been stuck in the grip of the winter doldrums. Heck, just about everyone here in Northwest Ohio has had enough of winter. I bet you have, too! The good news is that spring is on the way.

You may well be skeptical about this, given the massive dumping of snow the entire midwest endured recently. I think some areas got four inches. That's the least amount of snow that fell. Here in Whoville, it was more like eight or nine inches, with blowing and drifting winds.

I was so disheartened by winter's insistence on sticking around that I laid down on the couch, put my head on my boyfriend's lap, and slept an entire afternoon away. He didn't mind too much because the remote was nearby and some Nascar race was on t.v. Even so, that's a good four hours of my life that I'll never have back again!

In any case, the temperature outside has been creeping up ever so slowly, the past few days, and there's finally a promise of spring in the air: some of the summer songbirds are back already, waking me up too early with their cheerful music; the air itself smells of the rich, damp earth and hints at the blooming season to come; I can finally stop wearing my coat with the 800 geese-worth of down in it. But none of these things confirms that spring is coming quite like my ducks do.

As critters of the wild, they see and hear and feel unknown-to-me signs of the changing seasons. Maybe they, too, smell something in the air, but they clearly operate on a different timetable, a different schedule, than we humans. Indeed, all animals seem to know things that we don't. For instance, I've noticed that some years, the horses at the Healing Barn grow their wooly winter coats earlier than other years. And sometimes those coats are extra-shaggy, too. I always assume that they know something about the winter to come that we humans don't.

So I've been mindful of the fact that while winter seems to not want to let go anytime soon, the ducks are behaving as though spring is already here: Freckle Duck, who enjoyed a certain amount of independence during the cold months, is again being shadowed by the three optimists who staked their claims to her last year. Where she goes, those three big drakes always follow - a thing that never fails to amuse me: it's nice to see that she's got a fan base!

Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck spent the whole winter hanging around together, but now Ducky has joined them. I'm not sure why, though it's possible that Ducky is vying for Pretty Boy's attention. And while some of the other Domestics may not have paired off yet, they've begun the spring ritual of dividing up the turf nonetheless.

I assume this has to do with staking a claim to a nesting site. Everyone wants their own bit of property, and eventually, there will be nests hidden all around the far side of the pond. The Ethels will nest close to each other over by the fence near the interstate. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck like the shrubbery under the "McKinnon's Pond" sign near the parking strip. Pretty Lady likes the shrubs under the apartment building windows. Freckle Duck likes the clump of wild bushes growing right next to the water.

Once Officer Jeff showed me how to find the nests, last spring, I faithfully made the rounds five days a week, picking up all the Domestic duck eggs and disposing of them in a respectful fashion. Since the Domestics are all prolific egg-layers, it was the only way to control the population. I picked up eggs every week day for three months!

Since the ducks have already begun to pair off, I've been wondering how soon I'll need to start the routine again. This year, though, in an effort to keep the ducks from going off in search of better nesting sites (that I won't be able to find!), I've decided to try replacing their fertile eggs with fresh-from-the-store chicken eggs.

My understanding is that the ducks won't know the difference, and will eventually give up on the eggs when they fail to hatch. This approach makes more sense than simply removing the duck eggs, which just encouraged the ducks to lay more eggs. I'll let you know how the experiment turns out!

Anyway, even though the weather may still be dicey where you are - and the forecast here for the next few days is promising increasing cold - know that the most important signs of spring are well in hand and already happening, even if your thermometer says otherwise! I'll trust my ducks over the local weatherman any day!

That's all for now, Folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

A Few Good Men

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! As you already know, this blog is mainly about animals. But every now and then, I come across an animal-lover worthy of recognition, and Kelly's Critter Talk seems like a good place to give them their due. Today I want to tell you about two guys who help make the world a better place for animals in general, and for my gang of ducks in particular. In the interest of keeping them out of trouble with their bosses, I'm not going to mention their last names. They know who they are, though, and when I'm finished, so will you!

The first guy I want to mention is Jon. He's the Director of Important Things here in Whoville. I'm not sure what his job entails, but it seems to give him enough authority to decide whether to keep the fountain at McKinnon's Pond running through the winter. In years past, the pond froze sometime in December and stayed that way until spring. I don't remember whether there were Domestic ducks on the pond, then, or if so, how they managed. What I do know is that for the past few years, it's been Jon who's kept the fountain working, providing the ducks with a much-needed open area of water in which to bathe, drink, and escape predators.

From what I've gathered in my research about the ducks, water is a vital component of their diet. It seems that they especially need water to wash down their food - and nowhere is that more important than when they're eating dry, powdery cracked corn. I don't know whether Jon knows this about the ducks, or whether he just likes having them around - whatever the case, he does more for their survival every winter than just about anyone. That's a little-known and unremarked part of what he does for Whoville, which is why I've tried to thank him in a discreet, no-need-for-the-boss-to-know kind of way.

The information that Jon was a fan of the ducks came to me by way of Officer Jeff, who is the Animal Control Officer for the Whoville Police Department. I imagine that most Whovillians think that Officer Jeff's job is all about trapping that pesky raccoon that's taken up residence under their porch, but Jeff does a lot more than that, and he does it with heart.

Officer Jeff and his wife have raised any number of orphaned mallard ducklings in the family swimming pool, and, when Jeff was recently given a brand-new Animal Control truck to do his crittering in, he alone recognized the inherent problem of having a black vehicle with no air conditioning in the back. When he voiced his concern about it, the Chief of Whoville Police told him to go buy a nice seat cover for the (air conditioned) cab - which is where Jeff will be housing those pesky raccoons during transport on hot summer days!

It was Officer Jeff who first noticed that there was a duck lady (me) hanging around and making friends with those flightless ducks at McKinnon's Pond. Having done his homework, and knowing that those ducks multiply astronomically, Jeff approached me about doing some population control. Last spring, after he showed me where to look for nests, I spent over three months picking up eggs five days a week.

The effort paid off: with the exception of the dumped-by-his-humans Puddleduck, the Domestic duck population remained stable for the first time ever. Officer Jeff was exceedingly pleased, which puts my gang of ducks in a better position to comfortably live out their lives at the pond: as long as the numbers are manageable, then apparently, there are those with some influence in Whoville who are willing to help manage them.

It must be noted that neither one of these men is required to do what they do for the ducks. The City of Whoville is in no way responsible for those abandoned animals, and, indeed, it's actually Officer Jeff's job to catch and have euthanized that very sort of unwanted, unadoptable critter. In Jon's case, it would no doubt be much easier - and less costly - to turn the fountain off between October and May. I have no idea what motivates either man. Given the flavor of my conversations with Jeff, though, I sense that he's a man who experiences a genuinely innocent child-like joy around animals.

I can't thank either Jon or Jeff enough for what they do - and allow me to do - for the Whoville ducks. It may be a small matter to Jon to leave that fountain on through the winter, but it's life and death for the ducks. And the fact that Jeff believes the ducks are good for the health of McKinnon's Pond tells me that he has indeed done his homework, and found good reasons (and good arguments, should he need them!) for keeping the ducks around. May the Gods smile on both men, and their families, for the good deeds they're doing for animals in need.

That's all for now folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

My Favorite Things

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me again. Happy New Year!

Every year around Christmas time, I look forward to watching that sappy, soppy, sentimental favorite, The Sound of Music. Every year the movie seems hokier than the year before, but I tune in anyway, and invariably tear up at some point in the proceedings. This season, though, I never saw any promotional ads on t.v. And, when Christmas came and went without a von Trapp in sight, I assumed I had missed my once-a-year treat.

So as I channel-surfed two nights ago, you can imagine my surprise when I found the movie playing on a local station. Yay! But then I did some mental figuring and concluded that they'd already shown the best part of the whole three-hour movie. Rats! I don't sit through all that doe-a-deer stuff for nothing!

Realizing that my one opportunity for the year had been blown, and feeling mildly bummed about it, I began making up lyrics in my head. I do this sometimes, to amuse myself. And I liked the result enough to want to share it with you now, on this first day of a new year full of adventures and possibilities. So with sincere appologies to Oscar Hammerstein, I submit the following for your approval:

Saddles on horses and whiskers on kittens,
huge bags of chocolate and warm woollen mittens.
Big ducks that quack til it makes my ears ring,
these are a few of my favorite things.

Folks, the moral of the story is that if the song doesn't work for you the way it's written, then write your own song. Take a risk. Put your heart on the line. Live dangerously - or at least, more fully. Stop waiting for someone to drop a life in your lap and go out and get one! Smile more, and bitch less. Make someone laugh. Be kind. Say yes.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

The Beginning

Hi folks!

I never did tell you how I first got involved with the ducks at McKinnon's Pond, so I thought I'd better bring you up to speed! Seven years ago, I moved into a tiny little apartment about a mile away from the pond. The place was so small and dark that I got into the habit of taking walks every day, just to get away from those four walls. The pond was the turning-around point, and for the first few months, I didn't even stop to look at the scenery; I'd just glance over at the water as I turned and headed for home.

More than a few times, I'd see this middle-aged couple standing near the water with a small bag in their hands. At their feet would be a gang of ducks, eating the cracked corn they'd brought with them. Sometimes the corn would fall onto the tops of their shoes, and the ducks would come right up and eat it! It looked like fun, so I started bringing my own bag of corn. I'd sit on one of the many park benches, and the ducks would gather around my feet. They were mostly wild mallards, with three notable exceptions: two big white "Aflac" ducks, and a jumbo-sized mallard. After doing a little research, though, I learned that she wasn't a mallard after all, but a Domestic duck breed called Rouen. Since neither the Rouen or the white Pekins can fly, the only way those three got to the pond was by being dumped.

There was a natural increase, during this time, as Missy Miss Rouen got herself a mallard boyfriend and laid a bunch of eggs - eleven, to be exact. Because there are so many predators in the area, though, only three of those ducklings survived to adulthood. Today, you know them as Pretty Lady, Big Boy, and Pretty Boy. Eventually, Pretty Lady had a number of ducklings of her own before I started removing the eggs from all the Domestic girls' nests in an effort to keep the population in check.

There was also an increase because stupid people kept dumping their unwanted Easter ducks. Why in the world anyone would buy an animal knowing that they aren't going to keep it for a lifetime is beyond me, but that's what happens. I know because I had a conversation once with a couple who had dumped two Rouen girls after their grandchildren had tired of their Easter surprise. The couple had named one of the ducks Ethel. To this day, I have no idea who's who because the two ducks look alike. To keep things simple at feeds, I just refer to both of them as "Ethel-Ethel!"

A few summers ago, I had some tense words with the female half of that stupid couple because I wouldn't let the Ethels add to the population problem by letting them keep their eggs. The woman got so annoyed that she called Animal Control - little knowing that Officer Jeff and I work together to keep the population down! If I could rat the couple out here in my blog, I would, but alas, I never learned their names.

I will say this, though: last summer, I found the decapitated remains of a Domestic drake lying in the grass. It was a horrible sight. So, stupid duck-dumping couple, know this - 1) the minute you dumped the Ethels, you gave up any claim to them whatsoever; if I choose to remove the eggs from their nests, or even take those ducks home with me, I can do that because they're no longer yours. And 2) what happened to that poor headless duck can just as easily happen to the Ethels; that's the danger you put them in when you decided to dump them.

Over time, some Domestics died, others were dumped, and still others were very sneaky about their nest sites and I never found the eggs! Seven years later, there are roughly sixteen Domestic ducks living on McKinnon's Pond. I haven't named all sixteen because I can't actually recognize them all. Last summer, Freckle Duck had three Domestic drakes following her around, and they all had cream-colored tummies. To my untrained eye, they look exactly alike. The only way I can tell Big Boy apart from all the other large drakes is because he's such a huge chunk of duck that he stands out like a sore thumb.

You might think that Pretty Boy is the only black duck on the pond. For a time he was, but not anymore. Ducky, who has white rings around his eyes that make him look rather studious, was dumped several years ago, while Baby Fuzz (o.k., so they're not always the most creative names!) was one of those ducklings that Pretty Lady snuck onto the pond when I wasn't looking. The three black ducks are easy for me to tell apart because their markings are so distinctive. That, and one of them only has one wing!

Rounding out the line-up are Pretty Boy's girlfriend, the appropriately-named Girlfriend Duck; Peepers the Pekin - another duckling that Pretty Lady snuck in behind my back; Puddleduck, a Pekin who was dumped last summer; and the two Pekins I dubbed, "Fellows!" Back when I was first feeding the original three Domestics, I would greet them all as one by calling, "Fellows!" The name stuck, and to this day, I still address those two guys as such.

You're probably wondering what all the fuss is about, and why I devote so much of my time, energy, and money to what would seem to be boring animals. But that's just the thing - they're not at all boring! I learned that back in the early days, when, as I approached the pond on my walks, the ducks would catch sight of me. They'd start quacking to each other, something along the lines of, "Hey! The corn lady is here!" Then they'd all race toward me at once - up to thirty, forty ducks (mostly wild mallards) stampeding in my direction, all quacking madly, and every one of them glad to see me. That gets addictive very quickly, I can tell you!

At some point in the proceedings, I bought a point-and-shoot camera, and got the inspirational idea of sitting on the ground among them. I now had a ducks-eye view of the world, and, since I wasn't towering over them anymore, they became much more comfortable with me.

It's been that way for seven years now: I'll get out of the car, pick a spot for the feed, pour out a large measure of cracked corn mixed with duck pellets, then sit cross-legged on the ground in front of them. The ducks never stay in one place for too long, so they'll eat some food, then wander around a bit, then eat more food, then go down to water's edge for a drink. Most of the ducks get within a few inches of me at least once during a feed. I try very hard to observe the rules: no loud noises, no sudden moves. Most of them don't want to be touched, either.

Even so, I'll make a point of running my fingers through the tail feathers of some of them. I do this regularly with Pretty Boy and the Ethels. I want them to get used to my touch and not fear it, because as we've already seen with my favorite duck, sooner or later someone's going to have to go to the vet! Fortunately, the ducks have been lucky, over the years, and had very few mishaps.

Most of the problems and injuries have to do with fishing line and hooks, which careless people leave lying around all over the place. These days, I carry a bag of specially-chosen gear in my trunk, all of it designed to remove fish hooks, or cut fishing line off of duck legs. In a perfect world, I'd never even need to think about a bag of tools in my trunk. Regretably, it's a huge concern, and I've seen the damage fishing line can do: it once wound so tightly around a wild mallard's leg that it eventually amputated that leg. Because the duck was wild, I never got near enough to help him. It took two whole weeks before that leg rotted sufficiently to fall off.

I'm going to end on that downer note, folks, because it was humans who left the fishing crap lying around, and humans who can make a difference with the animals, if they choose. In the first place, please don't bring home any animal that you're not prepared to take care of for the rest of its' natural life. In the second place,
even if you don't have any pets of your own, you can still help make the world a better place through kindness to all critters. If you don't have the money to donate to a worthy critter cause, maybe you could donate some of your time, or give a piece of artwork to a charity fund-raiser. You could even donate your unwanted clothes or electronics!

If nothing else, every one of us can certainly ramp up our awareness of how small we're making their habitat, and that what's left of it doesn't need to be riddled with cigarette butts, empty pop cans, or used-up fishing line. Thank you all for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Kelly's Christmas Cats

Hi folks!

Happy Holidays to you! I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas/Hanukkah/non-denominational time with lots of friends, family, good cheer and critters!

You'll probably be surprised to hear me say that I don't love all my cats equally. That would be impossible. It's more accurate to say that I love them all uniquely and individually. Each cat has a different temperment, different needs and wants, and a different personality. Because Spanky and Junebug are a little needier than the others, come Christmastime, I'll whisper in Spanky's ear, "You're my best present every year, 'Panky!" A little while later, I'll tell Junebug, "You're my favorite Christmas kitty!" The other cats seem to understand that those two need extra help, and no one seems to hold a grudge about it because the truth is, they all know that they're going to be spoiled eventually!

The cats have no idea what the holiday fuss is all about. Stockings, carols, and Christmas cards mean nothing to them. I do hang a stocking for them, a red felt thing with a mouse embroidered on it that I found in a store years ago. I usually have to Zip-loc the things that smell good, otherwise the cats will help themselves well before the appointed day. On Christmas Day, I'll sit down on the floor with them, use my excited tone of voice and say, "Christmas, cats!" Then I'll pull their gifts out of the stocking one by one.

This year, there was a new feathery thing attached to a stick. It was an immediate hit with Junebug and Spanky, who both pounced on it gleefully. Buddy just observed for a bit, while Gracie leapt back in horror every time I waved the feather in her direction. I suppose that while she was on the streets, movement meant danger, so I didn't push the issue.

There were two new toy mice to add to the collection of other toy mice that they rarely play with. You know the kind: a small mouse-shaped thing covered in rabbit hair, with a leathery tail at one end. For some reason, Buddy always chews those tails off and eats them. And he works pretty quickly, too: those mice weren't out of the stocking for more than ten minutes before I noticed their tails were gone!

The cats also got a package of snack treats. I don't recall the brand, but they're cheap and crunchy and crab flavored. Muffin, in particular, has taken a keen interest in these treats. Old Muff, who generally spends her days doing very little, will suddenly spring to life if she gets a whiff of crab or hears the package crinkle. Then she'll come running over to me with a speed I didn't know she possessed. It's nice to see she's still got some life in her after all these years!

So we spent about an hour chewing and leaping and sniffing and batting. Everyone joined in the fun, and after watching the other cats have at it, Gracie eventually mustered up the courage to give the feathery thing a few rabbit kicks! It was good bonding fun, where every cat got to sample the new goodies and enjoy some playtime with me.

Realistically, every pet owner (including me) should set aside some playtime with the critters every day. I understand that busy schedules often get in the way, and to be honest, I don't believe that all my cats want to play every single day: Muffin's too old; Buddy has his own agenda; Spanky prefers snuggling to playing; and Gracie's a little afraid of play that involves humans. Out of the five, Junebug is the only one who will aproach me with toy mice in her mouth, asking me to play. And while Junebug's only three years old, I've noticed that even she doesn't ask me to play that often anymore.

It seems more important to my cats that I am consistent. That I acknowledge Muffin when she maiows. That I stop working at the computer for a few minutes and let Spanky have a snuggle with me on the desk. That instead of shooing Gracie away while I'm trying to type, I scoop her onto my lap, where she'll purr happily until I get up. That I drop everything and respond to all of Junebug's squeaks. That I know when Buddy's had enough petting and wants to me to go away. Different cats, different personalities. While the cats don't need Christmas, they do need to be able to rely on me.

All my cats get presents every Christmas, but Santa gave me something a little different this year: my very own elf! A few weeks ago, I got an email out of the blue from a woman named Liz who had read about Pretty Boy and I in the Toledo Free Press. She liked what I was doing for the ducks at McKinnon's Pond and offered to take on the task of feeding them at weekends. So not only are the ducks getting a healthy meal when I'm not there, but I've got a set of eyes and ears at the pond, now, too. If there's an emergency, I'll learn about it that much sooner. Santa really took care of me this year - what I asked for was a bag of money and a date with George Clooney. What I got was the one thing I really needed: some help with the ducks. Thank you, Santa! And, thank you, Liz!

That's all for now, folks. I hope you all remembered your critters in some small way this holiday season - maybe with a new rawhide bone, or fancy collar, or just some extra crab-flavored snacks. But what your animals really want for Christmas - and all year around - is your love and attention. The great thing about those is that neither one will show up on your credit card bill in January! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!