Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by again!
A lot of people wonder what I do all day, so I thought I'd describe a normal day in the life of the Critter Lady. Mind you, today's events don't happen every day (thank goodness for that!), but you'll get an idea of what I'm up to.
I got an email last night from the woman who feeds my gang of ducks on the weekends. Liz read about me in the local paper a while back and got in touch with me, volunteering her services. I've been relying on her ever since.
In addition to feeding the ducks, Liz is also my eyes and ears at McKinnon's Pond. She sent me an email a couple of months ago, when she became concerned about one of the Pekins. She thought maybe he had a leg injury. After I checked him out, I told her that no, he's not injured; Puddleduck's just bow-legged! I sure am grateful for the observations, though!
In any case, last night's email told me that Liz had come across a dead goose at the pond. She didn't know why the poor creature had died, or what to do with the corpse, but she wanted me to know about it. I immediately replied and asked if she was sure it was a goose, and not one of my guys. She reassured me that the dead critter in question was, indeed, a Canada goose. I told her I'd check it out today.
I had a holiday open house to go to this afternoon. Julie, the pottery instructor at the studio where I make stuff (vases for animal charity events, to be specific), has her own gallery up the road in the quaint and historic town of Watersedge. It's a thirty-minute drive from Whoville, but all the Watersedge shops are open for the event, most of them set out free cookies, and there are carolers and horse-drawn wagon rides, as well.
It's a festive occasion (although, due to our current economic woes, it was also rather subdued this year) and Julie always has good stuff in her gallery. She features a number of artists in different mediums, and my favorite is the boiled wool lady, who makes catnip mice out of wool.
For reason I can't explain, cats in general seem to like wool, and my cats in particular are no exception. Every year, at Julie's holiday open house, I avail myself of the free food and pick up a couple of wool mice for the cats' Christmas stocking. And every Christmas Day, my cats get stoned out of their minds on those mice!
I stopped off at McKinnon's Pond on the way to the open house. I decided to give the ducks an extra helping of cracked corn before I looked into the dead goose issue. I figured that if they were occupied with food, my gang wouldn't follow me all over the place like they occasionally do. Sometimes, I get to feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, except with ducks instead of rats. One day, I had over forty ducks (mostly wild mallards) following me in search of extra corn!
After I dumped a pile of feed near the boathouse, I followed Liz's directions and walked half-way around the pond before I found the corpse. He seemed to have a neck injury, and when I turned him over, I found a big, yucky, maggot-filled wound on his belly. I'm guessing that a raccoon got him because they never seem to eat what they kill. I think a dog would've played with the corpse, and a coyote would've made a meal of it, but it seems like only raccoons kill an animal, make a hash of the body, and then leave it without eating. What a waste.
In any case, I had with me the empty paper sacking that the cracked corn had come in, along with a lawn-and-leaf bag, for disposal. I wrapped up the goose in the paper, then put the whole package in the plastic bag. I headed back around to the boathouse, putting the carcass in a garbage barrel along the way. The Whoville City garbage collectors will come around next week and take care of the rest.
The ducks, having eaten every last piece of corn in the six minutes I was dealing with the goose, all took a renewed interest in me and started heading in my direction. I spent some time reassuring them that there was, in fact, no more corn, then climbed into my car and drove to Watersedge.
As I travelled, I reflected on the thought that while an untold number of people use the park and pond every day - for duck feeding, as well as exercising dogs, and making clandestine cell phone calls - I seem to be the only one who's involved to the point of handling dead critter issues.
There is, of course, Animal Control Officer Jeff, who I usually call in such situations. Part of his job is disposing of just this sort of unfortunate creature before children start playing with them and catch some disease or other. But since it was Sunday, I decided to give Jeff a break and handle it myself. Besides, a maggoty dead critter is a lot easier to deal with in winter than in summer!
I wish there was good news to report on the wool mouse front, but by the time I got to the gallery, they were all sold out. Julie assures me that she can hook me up with some before Christmas arrives, though, so that's all right. I sure did enjoy spending some time among the living, savoring the thin, wintry sunshine, wandering the antique shops and listening to carolers as I did. There's just something special about a quaint old village that puts me in the holiday spirit.
Any day now, I'll start putting up my Christmas decorations. My all-time favorite thing is a stocking that a friend of mine cross-stitched for me, some years ago. It's a picture of a white cat lying under a Christmas tree, playing with a string of lights. It is, of course, the cats' stocking. Every good-smelling thing that goes into it (like catnip mice) has to be sealed into a Ziploc bag, first, lest the cats get curious too soon! On Christmas day, I'll pull out all the new toys and snacks and let the cats have at 'em. It's the best part of my holiday!
So that's a day in the life of the Critter Lady. Fortunately, there aren't always critter deaths to deal with! A typical day is usually about feeding and nurturing living animals, which makes dealing with the occasional death a little more tolerable.
I hope you all have your own special winter critter traditions - whether it be feeding the wild birds or putting out a salt lick for the deer (but please, no hunting!), or buying a nice new blanket for that old horse in your pasture. May you all be as blessed with wonderful critter characters as I am!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks again for stopping by, and until next time, please be kind to all the critters.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Scruffy the Kitten
Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by. I had a rough morning, today, and I want to tell you about it.
My boyfriend's barn cat (who will be spayed ASAP) had a litter of four kittens this past spring. They were cute little buggers, as kittens always are. They spent their days chasing bugs, pouncing on each other, and watching as mama taught them how to kill mice. It seemed like an idyllic kittenhood. Idyllic, I know now, for all but one.
John named her Scruffy because she always looked so unkempt. She never really got the hang of bathing, so her coat was always matted and oily. She never seemed to gain any weight, either. While her siblings thrived, Scruffy did not. There came a time when her siblings were easily twice her size. She ate, but the food never stuck to her ribs. Indeed, she was terribly emaciated, with her bones sticking out sharply under her skin; when you touched her, you could feel every vertebrae in her spine.
At some point, she developed a respiratory infection. She was so weak and sickly that she couldn't even be bothered to clean away the snot that hung from her nostril. She was a pitiful sight, hunched over on an old couch, looking fragile. I wiped the snot off her face several times the day I visited, but her nose never stopped running. Hearing the bubbly, uneven breathing, you wondered how she stayed alive.
It was heartbreakingly painful just to look at her. She rarely made eye contact with me. Mostly, she huddled uncomfortably on that ratty couch, looking like she was waiting for death. That was how she passed her days - just waiting. I never saw joy in her eyes, or interest in anything. It was an existence, and barely that.
John and I assumed that she would simply pass away at some point, but she never did. Whatever compelled her to keep going is beyond me, because she certainly had no quality of life. When I'd had enough of waiting for the inevitable, I took her to the vet. I was pretty sure that she'd need to be euthanized, a fact I tried to get across to John as gently as possible: they may be barn cats, but he still gets attached to them.
I didn't give the matter much thought as I drove to the clinic. I was too busy being indignant about how long it had taken John to acquiesce. I hadn't formed a bond with this particular kitty anyway. In the first place, she always looked so unhappy, I didn't want to touch her and make things worse. At the same time, she was too sick to be cute and cuddly. Indeed, out of all the photos I took as the kittens grew, I'm sad to say that I only have one picture of Scruffy.
The doctor told me that there is a veterinary term called "failure to thrive," and it described Scruffy to a tee. For some unknown reason, Scruffy's siblings came out of the womb completely healthy, while Scruffy herself did not. The vet said that the kitten's future consisted of nothing more than illness after illness, with diagnoses and cures an uncertainty. The doctor went on to say that she wasn't even confident that she could cure the current respiratory infection. Gently, she concluded that euthanasia was a kind and reasonable alternative. I nodded in agreement.
There was a form to sign, authorizing the doctor to put Scruffy down. I had planned to be present for the procedure, but when the vet tech exlained that it would be impossible to find the kitten's veins - requiring the doctor to inject the needle directly into Scruffy's heart - I passed. That was not a picture I wanted stuck in my head for the rest of my life. Instead, I asked the tech if she would please be present in my place, and hold the kitten for me. She kindly agreed.
Afterward, the doctor wrapped Scruffy's body neatly in the towel I'd been holding her in earlier. I placed the package gently in the critter carrier, and left the building. The tears began to flow as I pulled out into traffic, and they continued all the way home.
It took a bit of wondering to figure out why I was crying so hard for a kitten I barely knew. I finally realized that I was crying for all the opportunities I knew she'd miss: Feeling healthy. Lounging in the grass. Napping in the sunshine. Chasing birds, and mice, and chipmunks. And I cried, too, for my own selfish reasons: Because I'd never have the satisfaction of seeing Scruffy get well. Because I'd never get the opportunity to see her grow and thrive like her siblings. Because for her all-too-brief life, she knew only sickness and suffering, and no animal deserves that.
Hindsight is a given: I should've done something sooner. I should've known more (in spite of my complete lack of veterinary training). I SHOULD HAVE. I'll torture myself with that thought for a while, then file it away in that mental folder called "Learn From Your Mistakes, Will Ya?!" If there is a next time, I can assure you that relief will come to the animal in question much more quickly. For now, all I have to go on is the doctor's reassurance that I did the right thing. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't ease my sadness.
It was Cleveland Amory - author of "The Cat Who Came For Christmas" - who summed up his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cat so succinctly when he said, "It was not just that Polar Bear was not there. It was the awful, overpowering weight of knowing that he would never ever be there again." Indeed, euthanasia relieves the animal's misery, but rarely the human's.
That's all for now, folks, but I'd like to leave you with this one request: please, when your pet is suffering, please take him to the vet and allow the doctor to alleviate that suffering. As a responsible pet-owner, you owe your beloved animal this one last act of unselfish kindness.
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
My boyfriend's barn cat (who will be spayed ASAP) had a litter of four kittens this past spring. They were cute little buggers, as kittens always are. They spent their days chasing bugs, pouncing on each other, and watching as mama taught them how to kill mice. It seemed like an idyllic kittenhood. Idyllic, I know now, for all but one.
John named her Scruffy because she always looked so unkempt. She never really got the hang of bathing, so her coat was always matted and oily. She never seemed to gain any weight, either. While her siblings thrived, Scruffy did not. There came a time when her siblings were easily twice her size. She ate, but the food never stuck to her ribs. Indeed, she was terribly emaciated, with her bones sticking out sharply under her skin; when you touched her, you could feel every vertebrae in her spine.
At some point, she developed a respiratory infection. She was so weak and sickly that she couldn't even be bothered to clean away the snot that hung from her nostril. She was a pitiful sight, hunched over on an old couch, looking fragile. I wiped the snot off her face several times the day I visited, but her nose never stopped running. Hearing the bubbly, uneven breathing, you wondered how she stayed alive.
It was heartbreakingly painful just to look at her. She rarely made eye contact with me. Mostly, she huddled uncomfortably on that ratty couch, looking like she was waiting for death. That was how she passed her days - just waiting. I never saw joy in her eyes, or interest in anything. It was an existence, and barely that.
John and I assumed that she would simply pass away at some point, but she never did. Whatever compelled her to keep going is beyond me, because she certainly had no quality of life. When I'd had enough of waiting for the inevitable, I took her to the vet. I was pretty sure that she'd need to be euthanized, a fact I tried to get across to John as gently as possible: they may be barn cats, but he still gets attached to them.
I didn't give the matter much thought as I drove to the clinic. I was too busy being indignant about how long it had taken John to acquiesce. I hadn't formed a bond with this particular kitty anyway. In the first place, she always looked so unhappy, I didn't want to touch her and make things worse. At the same time, she was too sick to be cute and cuddly. Indeed, out of all the photos I took as the kittens grew, I'm sad to say that I only have one picture of Scruffy.
The doctor told me that there is a veterinary term called "failure to thrive," and it described Scruffy to a tee. For some unknown reason, Scruffy's siblings came out of the womb completely healthy, while Scruffy herself did not. The vet said that the kitten's future consisted of nothing more than illness after illness, with diagnoses and cures an uncertainty. The doctor went on to say that she wasn't even confident that she could cure the current respiratory infection. Gently, she concluded that euthanasia was a kind and reasonable alternative. I nodded in agreement.
There was a form to sign, authorizing the doctor to put Scruffy down. I had planned to be present for the procedure, but when the vet tech exlained that it would be impossible to find the kitten's veins - requiring the doctor to inject the needle directly into Scruffy's heart - I passed. That was not a picture I wanted stuck in my head for the rest of my life. Instead, I asked the tech if she would please be present in my place, and hold the kitten for me. She kindly agreed.
Afterward, the doctor wrapped Scruffy's body neatly in the towel I'd been holding her in earlier. I placed the package gently in the critter carrier, and left the building. The tears began to flow as I pulled out into traffic, and they continued all the way home.
It took a bit of wondering to figure out why I was crying so hard for a kitten I barely knew. I finally realized that I was crying for all the opportunities I knew she'd miss: Feeling healthy. Lounging in the grass. Napping in the sunshine. Chasing birds, and mice, and chipmunks. And I cried, too, for my own selfish reasons: Because I'd never have the satisfaction of seeing Scruffy get well. Because I'd never get the opportunity to see her grow and thrive like her siblings. Because for her all-too-brief life, she knew only sickness and suffering, and no animal deserves that.
Hindsight is a given: I should've done something sooner. I should've known more (in spite of my complete lack of veterinary training). I SHOULD HAVE. I'll torture myself with that thought for a while, then file it away in that mental folder called "Learn From Your Mistakes, Will Ya?!" If there is a next time, I can assure you that relief will come to the animal in question much more quickly. For now, all I have to go on is the doctor's reassurance that I did the right thing. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't ease my sadness.
It was Cleveland Amory - author of "The Cat Who Came For Christmas" - who summed up his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cat so succinctly when he said, "It was not just that Polar Bear was not there. It was the awful, overpowering weight of knowing that he would never ever be there again." Indeed, euthanasia relieves the animal's misery, but rarely the human's.
That's all for now, folks, but I'd like to leave you with this one request: please, when your pet is suffering, please take him to the vet and allow the doctor to alleviate that suffering. As a responsible pet-owner, you owe your beloved animal this one last act of unselfish kindness.
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Pretty Boy's Latest Stay In My Tub
Hi Folks!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you're here!
Well, Pretty Boy's latest visit went off without a hitch. His eye responded to the antibiotic drops and I took him back to the pond as scheduled. He's always so pleased to be home again that he's developed his own little happy dance: he paddles back and forth in the water, opening and closing his bill as if he's too excited to speak. He searches out Girlfriend Duck, makes sure she's o.k., then zips around the pond some more, like he can't believe his good fortune. It's the same every time.
I used his latest stay in my bathroom as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that he and I would be sharing the space during his visits. Pretty Boy wasn't terribly keen on that, and never really did get used to me walking in and conducting my business. He'd eye me suspiciously while I brushed my teeth/styled my hair/used the toilet, and growled if I came too close. When I'd swab the floor with paper towels - attempting to clean up yet another pile of duck poop - he'd squawk and nudge my hand with his bill as if to say, "I don't like this! Back off!"
I'm convinced that Pretty Boy knows perfectly well who I am: that human who's been feeding him since he was a duckling. Considering that he's about five or six years old now, it's been a lengthy relationship. I've lost track of how many times I've taken him to his various vets. He's been a guest in my bathroom four or five weeks out of the last year alone. In spite of all this, I remain somewhat of a stranger to him, or at least, a danger. I tower over him. I control his day - from when he gets tub time to when he's caged, to when we go outside for exercise. And I dictate what he eats while he's here. For an alpha duck like Pretty Boy, it must be hard to take.
So it should have come as no surprise that as I drove him back to the pond - in our new fashion of carrier in the front seat with the top off so he can stand up and get a look around - Pretty Boy took advantage of every opportunity to chomp my hand. And he can pinch you good, if he's got a mind to! "Pretty Boy," I'd ask him, "what're you doing?!" His answer was always the same: another chomp. I try not to take it personally.
Happily, my favorite duck is back where he belongs, hanging out with Girlfriend Duck and relishing the cooler weather we've been having. For a duck who really enjoyed biting me, he doesn't seem inclined to hold a grudge: he's put himself within grabbing range at every subsequent feed, and eats out of my hand when I offer him a fistful of corn. Clearly, he's developed a measure of trust in me, even if he does resent being imprisoned in my bathroom. I'm just glad that I'm able to help a critter in need.
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back again soon with more animal adventures to tell you about. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you're here!
Well, Pretty Boy's latest visit went off without a hitch. His eye responded to the antibiotic drops and I took him back to the pond as scheduled. He's always so pleased to be home again that he's developed his own little happy dance: he paddles back and forth in the water, opening and closing his bill as if he's too excited to speak. He searches out Girlfriend Duck, makes sure she's o.k., then zips around the pond some more, like he can't believe his good fortune. It's the same every time.
I used his latest stay in my bathroom as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that he and I would be sharing the space during his visits. Pretty Boy wasn't terribly keen on that, and never really did get used to me walking in and conducting my business. He'd eye me suspiciously while I brushed my teeth/styled my hair/used the toilet, and growled if I came too close. When I'd swab the floor with paper towels - attempting to clean up yet another pile of duck poop - he'd squawk and nudge my hand with his bill as if to say, "I don't like this! Back off!"
I'm convinced that Pretty Boy knows perfectly well who I am: that human who's been feeding him since he was a duckling. Considering that he's about five or six years old now, it's been a lengthy relationship. I've lost track of how many times I've taken him to his various vets. He's been a guest in my bathroom four or five weeks out of the last year alone. In spite of all this, I remain somewhat of a stranger to him, or at least, a danger. I tower over him. I control his day - from when he gets tub time to when he's caged, to when we go outside for exercise. And I dictate what he eats while he's here. For an alpha duck like Pretty Boy, it must be hard to take.
So it should have come as no surprise that as I drove him back to the pond - in our new fashion of carrier in the front seat with the top off so he can stand up and get a look around - Pretty Boy took advantage of every opportunity to chomp my hand. And he can pinch you good, if he's got a mind to! "Pretty Boy," I'd ask him, "what're you doing?!" His answer was always the same: another chomp. I try not to take it personally.
Happily, my favorite duck is back where he belongs, hanging out with Girlfriend Duck and relishing the cooler weather we've been having. For a duck who really enjoyed biting me, he doesn't seem inclined to hold a grudge: he's put himself within grabbing range at every subsequent feed, and eats out of my hand when I offer him a fistful of corn. Clearly, he's developed a measure of trust in me, even if he does resent being imprisoned in my bathroom. I'm just glad that I'm able to help a critter in need.
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back again soon with more animal adventures to tell you about. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
My Favorite Duck
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all having a great summer.
Well, as I write this, Pretty Boy Duck is back in my bathroom yet again. This will be his third eye infection in five months. The good news is that during the cold winter months ahead, it's entirely likely that he won't experience any more infections. The bad news is that next summer will probably be fraught with the same chronic problem that plagued him this summer.
In the interest of convenience, I've tried to streamline the duck-keeping process. Taping plastic drop cloth to the floor really cuts down on clean-up time, while cracking the bathroom door when I'm in the vicinity provides some much-needed ventilation and really cuts down on the duck poop smell.
Despite all the care I put into hosting my favorite duck, Pretty Boy continues to be a biting, growling force to be reckoned with. He's not above trying anything that will make my tasks more unpleasant, and he's not the least bit interested in behaving. When I wrap him in a towel at eyedrop-application time, he bites the towel. When my hand gets in the way, he bites my hand instead. It's my good fortune that he doesn't have any teeth!
I'd given considerable thought to the idea of buying a figure-eight harness - with a view to walking Pretty Boy on a leash in my back yard - but ultimately decided that, since the yard is fenced, letting him have a supervised walk around would be sufficient. My yard is bisected by a picket fence. For whatever reason, a previous owner chose not to continue the picket theme around the rest of the back yard. Instead, they used a nice, tall privacy fence. It's actually one of the reasons I bought the house: because nothing says "go away and leave me alone!" like a nice, tall privacy fence!
While the fence is pretty much duck-proof, I keep a close eye on his movements anyway. Pretty Boy spends his entire time outside looking for the exit. This is so obvious that there's no way I can be accused of anthropomorphism. He pokes his bill at the fence, and cocks an eye at the cracks to see if they might be big enough to squeeze through. He runs through the ivy, across the mulched bed, and around the shrubs. All the while, his head swivels back and forth like a periscope, intent on finding the way out.
We've had a bit of drought, the last couple months, so I've been putting my Playground Monitor time to good use watering some of my plants. When Pretty Boy wanders within range, I've taken to hosing him down as well. Interestingly, he seems to like the showers, and always turns himself to face into the blast. Every now and then, he'll try to catch some water in his mouth. Then he finds a shady spot to do a little preening. So far, he seems to enjoy the twice-daily excursions out into the fresh air and sunshine.
Meanwhile, getting him to eat enough is always a concern. Pretty Boy does eat some of his cracked corn, and picks at the duck pellets, but it's only enough to get by. He doesn't eat nearly as much in my bathroom as he does at my feeds at the pond. I don't suppose he's working up much of an appetite huddled on the floor by my tub.
I always try to supplement Pretty Boy's diet with greens from the grocery store, whether he wants them or not. As I stood before a fairly impressive array of choices yesterday, I recalled what my friend Bob Tarte wrote in Enslaved by Ducks about feeding a sickly goose. Bob said that in his attempts to encourage the bird to eat, he would wander his yard searching for the choicest dandelion greens to offer his pet.
Standing idly in the produce section, my gaze wandered back and forth before it settled on a area marked "dandelion greens." But the rubber-banded bunch of greens on offer didn't look anything like what Bob had pulled from his yard. These greens where huge - the sort of thing you'd expect to find growing in the Chernobyl fallout zone. I bought them anyway, but Pretty Boy doesn't seem the least bit interested in trying them. Indeed, I've seen no evidence at all that he's eaten so much as one chopped-up, bite-sized piece. Figures.
In the meantime, we've got three more days before he's due to go back to the pond. Dr. P. and I agreed that we wanted to treat this infection more aggressively than the last one, so Pretty Boy's getting his eye drops three times a day instead of two, and staying a day longer in my bathroom than he did last time. It's not nearly as much of an inconvenience as you would think. Establishing a routine and sticking to it is the key to maintaining my sanity, and throwing in extras like exercise time in the yard serves to make things more interesting for my favorite duck.
That's all for now, folks. I'll be sure to keep you updated on Pretty Boy's latest stay in my bathroom. Until then, please be kind to all the critters!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all having a great summer.
Well, as I write this, Pretty Boy Duck is back in my bathroom yet again. This will be his third eye infection in five months. The good news is that during the cold winter months ahead, it's entirely likely that he won't experience any more infections. The bad news is that next summer will probably be fraught with the same chronic problem that plagued him this summer.
In the interest of convenience, I've tried to streamline the duck-keeping process. Taping plastic drop cloth to the floor really cuts down on clean-up time, while cracking the bathroom door when I'm in the vicinity provides some much-needed ventilation and really cuts down on the duck poop smell.
Despite all the care I put into hosting my favorite duck, Pretty Boy continues to be a biting, growling force to be reckoned with. He's not above trying anything that will make my tasks more unpleasant, and he's not the least bit interested in behaving. When I wrap him in a towel at eyedrop-application time, he bites the towel. When my hand gets in the way, he bites my hand instead. It's my good fortune that he doesn't have any teeth!
I'd given considerable thought to the idea of buying a figure-eight harness - with a view to walking Pretty Boy on a leash in my back yard - but ultimately decided that, since the yard is fenced, letting him have a supervised walk around would be sufficient. My yard is bisected by a picket fence. For whatever reason, a previous owner chose not to continue the picket theme around the rest of the back yard. Instead, they used a nice, tall privacy fence. It's actually one of the reasons I bought the house: because nothing says "go away and leave me alone!" like a nice, tall privacy fence!
While the fence is pretty much duck-proof, I keep a close eye on his movements anyway. Pretty Boy spends his entire time outside looking for the exit. This is so obvious that there's no way I can be accused of anthropomorphism. He pokes his bill at the fence, and cocks an eye at the cracks to see if they might be big enough to squeeze through. He runs through the ivy, across the mulched bed, and around the shrubs. All the while, his head swivels back and forth like a periscope, intent on finding the way out.
We've had a bit of drought, the last couple months, so I've been putting my Playground Monitor time to good use watering some of my plants. When Pretty Boy wanders within range, I've taken to hosing him down as well. Interestingly, he seems to like the showers, and always turns himself to face into the blast. Every now and then, he'll try to catch some water in his mouth. Then he finds a shady spot to do a little preening. So far, he seems to enjoy the twice-daily excursions out into the fresh air and sunshine.
Meanwhile, getting him to eat enough is always a concern. Pretty Boy does eat some of his cracked corn, and picks at the duck pellets, but it's only enough to get by. He doesn't eat nearly as much in my bathroom as he does at my feeds at the pond. I don't suppose he's working up much of an appetite huddled on the floor by my tub.
I always try to supplement Pretty Boy's diet with greens from the grocery store, whether he wants them or not. As I stood before a fairly impressive array of choices yesterday, I recalled what my friend Bob Tarte wrote in Enslaved by Ducks about feeding a sickly goose. Bob said that in his attempts to encourage the bird to eat, he would wander his yard searching for the choicest dandelion greens to offer his pet.
Standing idly in the produce section, my gaze wandered back and forth before it settled on a area marked "dandelion greens." But the rubber-banded bunch of greens on offer didn't look anything like what Bob had pulled from his yard. These greens where huge - the sort of thing you'd expect to find growing in the Chernobyl fallout zone. I bought them anyway, but Pretty Boy doesn't seem the least bit interested in trying them. Indeed, I've seen no evidence at all that he's eaten so much as one chopped-up, bite-sized piece. Figures.
In the meantime, we've got three more days before he's due to go back to the pond. Dr. P. and I agreed that we wanted to treat this infection more aggressively than the last one, so Pretty Boy's getting his eye drops three times a day instead of two, and staying a day longer in my bathroom than he did last time. It's not nearly as much of an inconvenience as you would think. Establishing a routine and sticking to it is the key to maintaining my sanity, and throwing in extras like exercise time in the yard serves to make things more interesting for my favorite duck.
That's all for now, folks. I'll be sure to keep you updated on Pretty Boy's latest stay in my bathroom. Until then, please be kind to all the critters!
Monday, July 28, 2008
Another Pond Update
Hi Folks!
Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by again!
Now that summer's in full swing, I've been a little preoccupied with my usual summer activities like art festivals, and studio time at the place where I do pottery. Some weeks, I've actually missed a duck feed or two. At this time of year, I don't worry too much about that because Domestic ducks are famous dabblers, which means they smack their bills around in the mud, hunting for bugs and worms. They do the same thing in the water, too, searching for tasty duck treats at the bottom of the pond. So in theory, they should be getting plenty to eat on their own - even if they do act like they're starving to death when I show up with my bag of corn!
Because I'd missed a couple of feeds the other week, I thought I'd better make the rounds and see whether any of the girls had started another nest. The easiest way to tell who's nesting is to take a quick head-count when I first get out of the car. Who's lying around on the grass with the gang, instead of sitting on a nest somewhere? Let's see: Baby Fuzz is here. So are both Freckle Ducks. Pretty Lady is missing. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck are here. Ethel-Ethel? Nowhere to be seen. And it would be some minutes before Ethel showed up, which led me to believe that she might just have a nest over there on the side of the pond. I made a mental note to check it out after I went around the apartment building and fed Lady.
Good old Ethel is the friendliest duck on the pond. She and a sibling had been dumped there a few years ago after what must have been considerable handling by the humans who'd owned them. Always glad of a friendly face and a little food, both girls were congenial from Day One. Even though Ethel's sister disappeared this spring (probably the victim of a raccoon), Ethel's cheerful nature has not diminished one iota. She'll let me pet her, and she's the only Domestic trusting enough to actually crawl inside the bag of cracked corn without worrying about what the hulking human outside might do.
As it happened, Ethel did lay a new nest of eggs while I was off prowling around art fairs. I found the nest in a location she's tried to use before, behind a small shrub just at water's edge. It was fairly well-hidden, and contained eight eggs. She'd clearly been sitting on the nest, as the whole thing was covered in feathers. Domestics don't seem to consider a nest sit-ready until they've laid quite a few eggs and covered the nest in down feathers plucked from their own breast. While Ethel was off eating corn, I tossed all eight eggs into the water and replaced them with chicken eggs. I left the small pine cone that was already in the nest.
The lesson I took away from Ethel's latest nest was that perhaps I needed to tone down my zealous approach to duck nest-hunting. Instead of spending time during every feed searching for nests, maybe I'd have more success if I gave the girls time to lay more than an egg or two. It's a thought worth considering.
In any case, most of the girls have given up on their nest attempts for the year, and the boys' hormones have settled back down to normal. They're now beginning their yearly molt, and the cliques that inevitably separate the ducks during spring mating have now merged back into one big gang of ducks in which Pretty Boy seems to be the Alpha Duck, and Ducky, his willing henchman. In other words, all's right at the pond!
That's all for now, Folks, but it's by no means the end of the story: we still have two girls trying to nest (Lady and Ethel), and all the usual summer hazards (fishing line and hooks, and unkind children) to contend with. I'll be sure to keep you posted as events develop. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by again!
Now that summer's in full swing, I've been a little preoccupied with my usual summer activities like art festivals, and studio time at the place where I do pottery. Some weeks, I've actually missed a duck feed or two. At this time of year, I don't worry too much about that because Domestic ducks are famous dabblers, which means they smack their bills around in the mud, hunting for bugs and worms. They do the same thing in the water, too, searching for tasty duck treats at the bottom of the pond. So in theory, they should be getting plenty to eat on their own - even if they do act like they're starving to death when I show up with my bag of corn!
Because I'd missed a couple of feeds the other week, I thought I'd better make the rounds and see whether any of the girls had started another nest. The easiest way to tell who's nesting is to take a quick head-count when I first get out of the car. Who's lying around on the grass with the gang, instead of sitting on a nest somewhere? Let's see: Baby Fuzz is here. So are both Freckle Ducks. Pretty Lady is missing. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck are here. Ethel-Ethel? Nowhere to be seen. And it would be some minutes before Ethel showed up, which led me to believe that she might just have a nest over there on the side of the pond. I made a mental note to check it out after I went around the apartment building and fed Lady.
Good old Ethel is the friendliest duck on the pond. She and a sibling had been dumped there a few years ago after what must have been considerable handling by the humans who'd owned them. Always glad of a friendly face and a little food, both girls were congenial from Day One. Even though Ethel's sister disappeared this spring (probably the victim of a raccoon), Ethel's cheerful nature has not diminished one iota. She'll let me pet her, and she's the only Domestic trusting enough to actually crawl inside the bag of cracked corn without worrying about what the hulking human outside might do.
As it happened, Ethel did lay a new nest of eggs while I was off prowling around art fairs. I found the nest in a location she's tried to use before, behind a small shrub just at water's edge. It was fairly well-hidden, and contained eight eggs. She'd clearly been sitting on the nest, as the whole thing was covered in feathers. Domestics don't seem to consider a nest sit-ready until they've laid quite a few eggs and covered the nest in down feathers plucked from their own breast. While Ethel was off eating corn, I tossed all eight eggs into the water and replaced them with chicken eggs. I left the small pine cone that was already in the nest.
The lesson I took away from Ethel's latest nest was that perhaps I needed to tone down my zealous approach to duck nest-hunting. Instead of spending time during every feed searching for nests, maybe I'd have more success if I gave the girls time to lay more than an egg or two. It's a thought worth considering.
In any case, most of the girls have given up on their nest attempts for the year, and the boys' hormones have settled back down to normal. They're now beginning their yearly molt, and the cliques that inevitably separate the ducks during spring mating have now merged back into one big gang of ducks in which Pretty Boy seems to be the Alpha Duck, and Ducky, his willing henchman. In other words, all's right at the pond!
That's all for now, Folks, but it's by no means the end of the story: we still have two girls trying to nest (Lady and Ethel), and all the usual summer hazards (fishing line and hooks, and unkind children) to contend with. I'll be sure to keep you posted as events develop. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Monday, July 21, 2008
A Duck With A Chronic Eye Problem
Hi Folks!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you stopped by.
Well, Dr. Chrys was right when she said Pretty Boy's eye infections would most likely be a chronic problem. Unfortunately, Dr. Chrys isn't here anymore to take care of them: she recently moved to Germany for two years, leaving Team Pretty Boy in search of a vet that didn't require the sort of thirty-minute drive it took to reach Pretty Boy's other, sometimes-vet. After asking around, I got the name of a vet with avian experience whose office is much closer to the pond than Dr. Susan.
I initially spoke with Dr. P. on the phone, explaining about the pond-ful of abandoned ducks, and the need for a vet who could handle their usually-unscheduled emergencies. She seemed nice enough, and willing to help where she could. I closed the conversation by saying I hoped I wouldn't be meeting her any time soon! Naturally, I found myself in need of her services less than a month later.
I'd been growing concerned about Pretty Boy's eye. It looked cloudy, and Dr. Susan's words about ducks needing two good eyes kept ringing in my head. Last Friday, I made the decision to take him in to meet Dr. P. With his guard down, he was easy to grab. I'd already set the critter carrier out by the far side of my car where he couldn't see it. It was a simple matter to scoop him up and drop him in the carrier.
Riding in the front seat with the top of the carrier off, Pretty Boy spent another car trip clearly entranced by the idea of flight. Head swiveling like a periscope, he took in all the sights and sounds. When a truck drove by and made that hydraulic hissing noise, I chuckled and announced to my favorite duck, "Geese, Pretty Boy! Noisy ones!"
Dr. P. confirmed my suspicion of an infection and explained why, exactly, Pretty Boy's eye would always be an issue. Because the sutures hadn't been able to completely join his torn eyelid back together (you can go to my archives to read the blogs on his original eye injury, last November), his left eye no longer drains properly, meaning that his tears are no longer able to sufficiently cleanse his eye of all the yuck and bacteria that live in his pond. A build-up of that bacteria will eventually, inevitably, cause an infection.
I had been hoping that Pretty Boy's immune system would take care of the problem, but that was not the case. Dr. P. prescribed antibiotic eyedrops, and we agreed that the best course of action would be to put Pretty Boy in my bathroom for the few days he'd need those drops. He's been in there for three days, now.
As you may recall from past blogs, the last time Pretty Boy was in my bathroom (this last spring), he was in full mating mode. Mad as hell at being trapped in a stinky bathroom, away from Girlfriend Duck, he proceeded to tear the place up. Pulling bath towels off their racks was a favorite trick. Thankfully, mating season is over at the pond. Unfortunately, I forgot about molting season!
It must be said that molting season is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than mating season. For one thing, he doesn't have duck hormones racing through his veins, making him slightly nutty. But molting is a messy affair, one that involves individually picking the multitude of feathers out of the bathtub before I can drain it. The tiny down feathers go down the drain; I'm hoping they don't collect in a pipe somewhere and cause a clog!
There are also feathers all over the floor, but I believe I've stumbled upon an effective clean-up method that you might like to borrow for your own critter needs. After wasting a number of tall kitchen garbage bags, which I cut in half, spead out in the bathroom and taped to the floor, it finally occurred to me to use the drop cloth I had left over from a painting project. I could cut the stuff to any width and length, and when it was time to clean, simply roll it all into a poopy, stinky bundle and drop it in the garbage.
Because Northwest Ohio has been in the midst of a heat wave, the stink in the bathroom is far worse now than anything I endured last winter. The ninety-plus degree days literally bake that duck poop smell into the room, regardless of the two fans I have running. No matter how many piles of poop I clean up, the stink remains until - Pretty Boy watching closely from the tub - I wash down the entire floor, and some of the walls!
I've been so impressed by the cleaning product I've been using (and I'm not a clean freak by any stretch of the imagination; I simply needed a product that wouldn't kill a duck), that I'm going to mention it again in this blog. It's a spray bottle of stuff called Seventh Generation. Billing itself "Free & Clear," it claims to have no fumes, no phosphates, and to be non-toxic. As near as I can tell, they're not kidding.
While I object strenuously to the idea that Clean, Green and/or Organic must for some reason be exhorbitantly high-priced, I was then, and will be in future, willing to shell out the extortionate sum my local grocer asks for Seventh Generation, if for no other reason than it's the first effective cleaner I've bought that didn't bring to mind worries of COPD every time I breathed the stuff. Indeed, this cleaner has no fumes at all.
While I'm happy to be able to help Pretty Boy, the feeling does not seem to be mutual. In spite of the fact that I've known that goofy duck since he was an egg, he remains wary and standoffish, growling in warning if I get too close. As I squat down to clean up the piles of poop, he'll tilt his head and scrutinize me with his good eye. No matter how many times we go through this trapped-in-my-bathroom routine, he refuses to get used to it. I suppose it's just as well: a certain guardedness around humans might keep him out of harm's way at the pond.
At any rate, his eye seems to be improving, thanks to this latest round of antibiotics. He was due to return to the pond today, but I thought an extra day's-worth of drops might be beneficial so I'll be taking him back to the pond tomorrow. The thought occurred to me, though, that, given the chronic nature of his eye problem, I should expect these bathroom visits to become somewhat routine. If that's the case, I definitely need to find some sort of non-toxic air de-stinkifier!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for joining me! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you stopped by.
Well, Dr. Chrys was right when she said Pretty Boy's eye infections would most likely be a chronic problem. Unfortunately, Dr. Chrys isn't here anymore to take care of them: she recently moved to Germany for two years, leaving Team Pretty Boy in search of a vet that didn't require the sort of thirty-minute drive it took to reach Pretty Boy's other, sometimes-vet. After asking around, I got the name of a vet with avian experience whose office is much closer to the pond than Dr. Susan.
I initially spoke with Dr. P. on the phone, explaining about the pond-ful of abandoned ducks, and the need for a vet who could handle their usually-unscheduled emergencies. She seemed nice enough, and willing to help where she could. I closed the conversation by saying I hoped I wouldn't be meeting her any time soon! Naturally, I found myself in need of her services less than a month later.
I'd been growing concerned about Pretty Boy's eye. It looked cloudy, and Dr. Susan's words about ducks needing two good eyes kept ringing in my head. Last Friday, I made the decision to take him in to meet Dr. P. With his guard down, he was easy to grab. I'd already set the critter carrier out by the far side of my car where he couldn't see it. It was a simple matter to scoop him up and drop him in the carrier.
Riding in the front seat with the top of the carrier off, Pretty Boy spent another car trip clearly entranced by the idea of flight. Head swiveling like a periscope, he took in all the sights and sounds. When a truck drove by and made that hydraulic hissing noise, I chuckled and announced to my favorite duck, "Geese, Pretty Boy! Noisy ones!"
Dr. P. confirmed my suspicion of an infection and explained why, exactly, Pretty Boy's eye would always be an issue. Because the sutures hadn't been able to completely join his torn eyelid back together (you can go to my archives to read the blogs on his original eye injury, last November), his left eye no longer drains properly, meaning that his tears are no longer able to sufficiently cleanse his eye of all the yuck and bacteria that live in his pond. A build-up of that bacteria will eventually, inevitably, cause an infection.
I had been hoping that Pretty Boy's immune system would take care of the problem, but that was not the case. Dr. P. prescribed antibiotic eyedrops, and we agreed that the best course of action would be to put Pretty Boy in my bathroom for the few days he'd need those drops. He's been in there for three days, now.
As you may recall from past blogs, the last time Pretty Boy was in my bathroom (this last spring), he was in full mating mode. Mad as hell at being trapped in a stinky bathroom, away from Girlfriend Duck, he proceeded to tear the place up. Pulling bath towels off their racks was a favorite trick. Thankfully, mating season is over at the pond. Unfortunately, I forgot about molting season!
It must be said that molting season is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than mating season. For one thing, he doesn't have duck hormones racing through his veins, making him slightly nutty. But molting is a messy affair, one that involves individually picking the multitude of feathers out of the bathtub before I can drain it. The tiny down feathers go down the drain; I'm hoping they don't collect in a pipe somewhere and cause a clog!
There are also feathers all over the floor, but I believe I've stumbled upon an effective clean-up method that you might like to borrow for your own critter needs. After wasting a number of tall kitchen garbage bags, which I cut in half, spead out in the bathroom and taped to the floor, it finally occurred to me to use the drop cloth I had left over from a painting project. I could cut the stuff to any width and length, and when it was time to clean, simply roll it all into a poopy, stinky bundle and drop it in the garbage.
Because Northwest Ohio has been in the midst of a heat wave, the stink in the bathroom is far worse now than anything I endured last winter. The ninety-plus degree days literally bake that duck poop smell into the room, regardless of the two fans I have running. No matter how many piles of poop I clean up, the stink remains until - Pretty Boy watching closely from the tub - I wash down the entire floor, and some of the walls!
I've been so impressed by the cleaning product I've been using (and I'm not a clean freak by any stretch of the imagination; I simply needed a product that wouldn't kill a duck), that I'm going to mention it again in this blog. It's a spray bottle of stuff called Seventh Generation. Billing itself "Free & Clear," it claims to have no fumes, no phosphates, and to be non-toxic. As near as I can tell, they're not kidding.
While I object strenuously to the idea that Clean, Green and/or Organic must for some reason be exhorbitantly high-priced, I was then, and will be in future, willing to shell out the extortionate sum my local grocer asks for Seventh Generation, if for no other reason than it's the first effective cleaner I've bought that didn't bring to mind worries of COPD every time I breathed the stuff. Indeed, this cleaner has no fumes at all.
While I'm happy to be able to help Pretty Boy, the feeling does not seem to be mutual. In spite of the fact that I've known that goofy duck since he was an egg, he remains wary and standoffish, growling in warning if I get too close. As I squat down to clean up the piles of poop, he'll tilt his head and scrutinize me with his good eye. No matter how many times we go through this trapped-in-my-bathroom routine, he refuses to get used to it. I suppose it's just as well: a certain guardedness around humans might keep him out of harm's way at the pond.
At any rate, his eye seems to be improving, thanks to this latest round of antibiotics. He was due to return to the pond today, but I thought an extra day's-worth of drops might be beneficial so I'll be taking him back to the pond tomorrow. The thought occurred to me, though, that, given the chronic nature of his eye problem, I should expect these bathroom visits to become somewhat routine. If that's the case, I definitely need to find some sort of non-toxic air de-stinkifier!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for joining me! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Old Molly
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all keeping cool in this awful heat.
I've put off writing this particular blog because I'm not entirely sure what I want to say. Back in December of '07, I wrote a blog about critter trust, and I mentioned Old Molly the Belgian draft horse as an example of how an animal that's been neglected by its' owner can learn to have faith in its' new, better owner. This was certainly the case with Molly.
She had been confiscated, along with two other Belgians, from a man who neither fed nor watered those horses, but simply left them out in a field to survive on grass. My friend Nancy, who runs The Healing Barn, had been called in to foster them while the local Humane Society did battle with the horses' owner. Nancy maintained custody for the last nine years, ever since the judge found in favor of the Humane Society.
While one of the Belgians died shortly after being moved to The Healing Barn, a second lived another six-odd years, until his heart gave out due to old age. Molly plodded on without them, having taken a wild mustang under her wing for company. Molly and Baby the mustang were virtually inseperable. They were stalled next door to each other, and frequently touched noses over the top of the stall wall as a gesture of comfort and security. The times when Baby was out of Molly's line of sight, Molly would whinny anxiously, and you knew she was asking, "Where are you?"
For as long as I knew Molly, she was skin and bones. Imagine my surprise when I saw an old photo of her in which she looked fit and healthy! As with many animals, though, Molly's advanced years brought with them a rather extreme weight loss, and it's all but impossible to get an aged animal to gain weight. For the last three-odd years, I wondered how a horse that thin could survive the cold Northwest Ohio winters, but much to everyone's surprise, survive she did.
There were a number of times, during the past year, when Nancy worried about Molly's failing health. With every incident, she was certain that Molly wouldn't pull through, and yet somehow, Molly always did. Privately, I began to grow skeptical about Nancy's concern - precisely because Molly always seemed to bounce back. I'd show up on Saturday morning, and Nancy would tell me that Molly had gone down in her stall earlier in the week. Things would be touch-and-go for a day or two, but Molly always got up again. Until last week.
It's funny how your mind reacts to the news of someone's passing. When I walked into the barn last Saturday, scanned the bulletin board for announcements and found "Goodbye, Molly" written in Nancy's scrawled hand, my mind struggled to process it. "But I just groomed her last week," I thought frantically, "She was fine!" Intellectually, I understood - Old Molly was ancient, after all, and had had a hard life - but in my heart, it just didn't make any sense. Death never does.
I'm glad now for the time I gave Molly then. She seemed to enjoy being groomed, and would stand patiently in one place for the duration. Eyes half closed, lower lip jutting out, she was the picture of relaxed contentment. I'd talk to her quietly, remarking on how much of her woolly winter coat I was combing out - enough to make a couple of ponies! "Pretty old lady," I'd tell her. Every now and then, I'd pull a treat out of my ever-present fanny pack and give it to her. Molly never turned down a snack.
While I'm sure that Nancy will tell anyone who asks that Molly's in a better place now (and that may well be true), I can't help thinking about what a large presence that quiet, skinny Belgian took with her when she left. Other horses will come and go at The Healing Barn, but there will always, I think, be a void where Molly used to be. She was a singular lesson in the healing power of love, a horse who came to the barn frightened and neglected, but learned to trust again in spite of what had gone before. That's a testament not only to the work that Nancy, Allen, and Corri do at the barn, but a testament to Old Molly's faith in humanity, too. I hope we all served her well.
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for spending some time here! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all keeping cool in this awful heat.
I've put off writing this particular blog because I'm not entirely sure what I want to say. Back in December of '07, I wrote a blog about critter trust, and I mentioned Old Molly the Belgian draft horse as an example of how an animal that's been neglected by its' owner can learn to have faith in its' new, better owner. This was certainly the case with Molly.
She had been confiscated, along with two other Belgians, from a man who neither fed nor watered those horses, but simply left them out in a field to survive on grass. My friend Nancy, who runs The Healing Barn, had been called in to foster them while the local Humane Society did battle with the horses' owner. Nancy maintained custody for the last nine years, ever since the judge found in favor of the Humane Society.
While one of the Belgians died shortly after being moved to The Healing Barn, a second lived another six-odd years, until his heart gave out due to old age. Molly plodded on without them, having taken a wild mustang under her wing for company. Molly and Baby the mustang were virtually inseperable. They were stalled next door to each other, and frequently touched noses over the top of the stall wall as a gesture of comfort and security. The times when Baby was out of Molly's line of sight, Molly would whinny anxiously, and you knew she was asking, "Where are you?"
For as long as I knew Molly, she was skin and bones. Imagine my surprise when I saw an old photo of her in which she looked fit and healthy! As with many animals, though, Molly's advanced years brought with them a rather extreme weight loss, and it's all but impossible to get an aged animal to gain weight. For the last three-odd years, I wondered how a horse that thin could survive the cold Northwest Ohio winters, but much to everyone's surprise, survive she did.
There were a number of times, during the past year, when Nancy worried about Molly's failing health. With every incident, she was certain that Molly wouldn't pull through, and yet somehow, Molly always did. Privately, I began to grow skeptical about Nancy's concern - precisely because Molly always seemed to bounce back. I'd show up on Saturday morning, and Nancy would tell me that Molly had gone down in her stall earlier in the week. Things would be touch-and-go for a day or two, but Molly always got up again. Until last week.
It's funny how your mind reacts to the news of someone's passing. When I walked into the barn last Saturday, scanned the bulletin board for announcements and found "Goodbye, Molly" written in Nancy's scrawled hand, my mind struggled to process it. "But I just groomed her last week," I thought frantically, "She was fine!" Intellectually, I understood - Old Molly was ancient, after all, and had had a hard life - but in my heart, it just didn't make any sense. Death never does.
I'm glad now for the time I gave Molly then. She seemed to enjoy being groomed, and would stand patiently in one place for the duration. Eyes half closed, lower lip jutting out, she was the picture of relaxed contentment. I'd talk to her quietly, remarking on how much of her woolly winter coat I was combing out - enough to make a couple of ponies! "Pretty old lady," I'd tell her. Every now and then, I'd pull a treat out of my ever-present fanny pack and give it to her. Molly never turned down a snack.
While I'm sure that Nancy will tell anyone who asks that Molly's in a better place now (and that may well be true), I can't help thinking about what a large presence that quiet, skinny Belgian took with her when she left. Other horses will come and go at The Healing Barn, but there will always, I think, be a void where Molly used to be. She was a singular lesson in the healing power of love, a horse who came to the barn frightened and neglected, but learned to trust again in spite of what had gone before. That's a testament not only to the work that Nancy, Allen, and Corri do at the barn, but a testament to Old Molly's faith in humanity, too. I hope we all served her well.
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for spending some time here! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.
Monday, June 2, 2008
At The Pond
Hi Folks!
I'm glad you're here. Thanks for joining me again.
As you know from previous posts, I'm in charge of population control at McKinnon's Pond here in Whoville. It's my job to keep the Domestic ducks from having offspring, and the reason for that is because Domestic ducks lay a hell of a lot of eggs. One nest I found this spring had seventeen eggs in it! That's just from one duck! If you multiply that by the number of female Rouens on the pond, you'd get around one hundred new ducklings every single summer.
That amount of ducks on one pond is unsustainable, of course. They'd run out of food fairly quickly, and since they can't fly away, they'd be stuck at the pond, starving to death. Which is one of several scenarious I'm trying to avoid. Another involves the City of Whoville deciding to get rid of the problem (the ducks) altogether. As I've said before, there seems to be an unspoken understanding at some level of local government that as long as the number of ducks is manageable (and the person doing the managing isn't doing it on company time), then they'll be allowed to stay on the pond.
This spring, I decided to replace the duck eggs with chicken eggs because last year, when I removed the eggs and left nothing in their place, the ducks would abandon that nest and build another one in a different (and harder to find) location. I was thinking that if I fooled the girls into staying put, it would make my job a lot easier. You'd think it would be easy to think like a duck and find every nest on the first try, but you'd be wrong! Humans tend to over-think things anyway, and I was no exception: I kept looking in places that I thought would be good (under a shrub, say, away from local traffic), and kept coming up empty.
As it turns out, ducks don't seem to put that much thought into nest location. Indeed, several ducks chose sites that were far too close to danger for my liking: right next to an apartment building, for instance - entirely without cover and out in the open. That was Pretty Lady's chosen spot, and she laid twelve eggs. Even though they've been replaced with chicken eggs, she's still there, faithfully sitting on them, having no idea that they'll never hatch. Every time I feed the ducks, I walk around to the back side of that building, shoo Lady off her nest, and pour out a pile of food. She always gobbles it up like she hasn't eaten in days.
Another of the ducks - Freckle Duck, a hybrid Rouen who's mostly white with creamy spots, chose a clump of tall grass and saplings at water's edge for her second nest attempt. The first nest was disturbed - probably by neighborhood children - so she abandoned it fairly early in the season. Because her white feathers stand out like a sore thumb against all that green grass, she's ridiculously easy to spot.
Freckle's poor choice of location concerns me because children have an unfortunate tendency to tease the ducks, often throwing stones at them, or poking them with sticks. I sure would love it if every single parent on the planet spent time teaching their children about kindness to animals. Just think of how many less cruelty cases there would be if parents did that! Every day that I make my rounds at the pond, I worry about whether Freckle will still be o.k. She's just too out-in-the-open for my liking.
In any case, Freckle Duck is currently sitting on nine chicken eggs. She had laid twelve (which seems to be the average number of eggs laid per duck), but I ran out of chicken eggs at nine, and I'm pretty sure she can't count! Indeed, none of the ducks seem to notice that their eggs have been replaced with something noticeably smaller, and a different shade of white, too boot. Thank goodness for that!
Even though I've replaced all the duck eggs with chicken eggs, I still check the nests after every feed because the ducks have a tendency to keep adding more eggs to the batch. I collect all the duck eggs in a bag, then toss them one by one out into the pond. It seems a more appropriate and respectful resting place than the trash barrels the City provides.
At some point, as spring wanders into summer, Officer Jeff will drive by the pond and express his satisfaction that there are no new ducks to contend with. Don't get me wrong - Jeff likes the ducks just about as much as I do; he simply wants to avoid any unpleasant outcomes such as culling. Because if someone decides the flock needs culling, the job will inevitably fall to Animal Control Officer Jeff. And killing ducks is the last thing he wants to do.
For now, everything is going pretty much according to plan. I'm keeping tabs on five nests, and I'm watching to see where Ethel-Ethel decides to set up shop next. Some City worker with a weed whacker and too much time on his hands disturbed her first nest (which annoyed me no end: she'd laid nine eggs and had just started sitting on them). Hopefully, her next nest will be as easy to find as the first. The fact that she's not the brightest bulb in the pack definitely works in my favor!
Regardless of what happened to her first nest, though, Ethel remains cheerful and friendly, and always eager to approach me and my big bag of corn! It's an almost daily occurance to see her racing toward me through the grass, quacking boyfriend in tow. It's a sight that never fails to charm and amuse me.
So that's what's happening at the pond. I'll be sure to keep you updated as the summer goes on, because it seems inevitable that some sneaky duck will hatch a few ducklings in spite of me. It happened last year, and it's why the pond is now blessed with Baby Fuzz, who laid twelve eggs this spring, and Peepers, who will undoubtedly find himself a girlfriend next year.
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for stopping by! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
I'm glad you're here. Thanks for joining me again.
As you know from previous posts, I'm in charge of population control at McKinnon's Pond here in Whoville. It's my job to keep the Domestic ducks from having offspring, and the reason for that is because Domestic ducks lay a hell of a lot of eggs. One nest I found this spring had seventeen eggs in it! That's just from one duck! If you multiply that by the number of female Rouens on the pond, you'd get around one hundred new ducklings every single summer.
That amount of ducks on one pond is unsustainable, of course. They'd run out of food fairly quickly, and since they can't fly away, they'd be stuck at the pond, starving to death. Which is one of several scenarious I'm trying to avoid. Another involves the City of Whoville deciding to get rid of the problem (the ducks) altogether. As I've said before, there seems to be an unspoken understanding at some level of local government that as long as the number of ducks is manageable (and the person doing the managing isn't doing it on company time), then they'll be allowed to stay on the pond.
This spring, I decided to replace the duck eggs with chicken eggs because last year, when I removed the eggs and left nothing in their place, the ducks would abandon that nest and build another one in a different (and harder to find) location. I was thinking that if I fooled the girls into staying put, it would make my job a lot easier. You'd think it would be easy to think like a duck and find every nest on the first try, but you'd be wrong! Humans tend to over-think things anyway, and I was no exception: I kept looking in places that I thought would be good (under a shrub, say, away from local traffic), and kept coming up empty.
As it turns out, ducks don't seem to put that much thought into nest location. Indeed, several ducks chose sites that were far too close to danger for my liking: right next to an apartment building, for instance - entirely without cover and out in the open. That was Pretty Lady's chosen spot, and she laid twelve eggs. Even though they've been replaced with chicken eggs, she's still there, faithfully sitting on them, having no idea that they'll never hatch. Every time I feed the ducks, I walk around to the back side of that building, shoo Lady off her nest, and pour out a pile of food. She always gobbles it up like she hasn't eaten in days.
Another of the ducks - Freckle Duck, a hybrid Rouen who's mostly white with creamy spots, chose a clump of tall grass and saplings at water's edge for her second nest attempt. The first nest was disturbed - probably by neighborhood children - so she abandoned it fairly early in the season. Because her white feathers stand out like a sore thumb against all that green grass, she's ridiculously easy to spot.
Freckle's poor choice of location concerns me because children have an unfortunate tendency to tease the ducks, often throwing stones at them, or poking them with sticks. I sure would love it if every single parent on the planet spent time teaching their children about kindness to animals. Just think of how many less cruelty cases there would be if parents did that! Every day that I make my rounds at the pond, I worry about whether Freckle will still be o.k. She's just too out-in-the-open for my liking.
In any case, Freckle Duck is currently sitting on nine chicken eggs. She had laid twelve (which seems to be the average number of eggs laid per duck), but I ran out of chicken eggs at nine, and I'm pretty sure she can't count! Indeed, none of the ducks seem to notice that their eggs have been replaced with something noticeably smaller, and a different shade of white, too boot. Thank goodness for that!
Even though I've replaced all the duck eggs with chicken eggs, I still check the nests after every feed because the ducks have a tendency to keep adding more eggs to the batch. I collect all the duck eggs in a bag, then toss them one by one out into the pond. It seems a more appropriate and respectful resting place than the trash barrels the City provides.
At some point, as spring wanders into summer, Officer Jeff will drive by the pond and express his satisfaction that there are no new ducks to contend with. Don't get me wrong - Jeff likes the ducks just about as much as I do; he simply wants to avoid any unpleasant outcomes such as culling. Because if someone decides the flock needs culling, the job will inevitably fall to Animal Control Officer Jeff. And killing ducks is the last thing he wants to do.
For now, everything is going pretty much according to plan. I'm keeping tabs on five nests, and I'm watching to see where Ethel-Ethel decides to set up shop next. Some City worker with a weed whacker and too much time on his hands disturbed her first nest (which annoyed me no end: she'd laid nine eggs and had just started sitting on them). Hopefully, her next nest will be as easy to find as the first. The fact that she's not the brightest bulb in the pack definitely works in my favor!
Regardless of what happened to her first nest, though, Ethel remains cheerful and friendly, and always eager to approach me and my big bag of corn! It's an almost daily occurance to see her racing toward me through the grass, quacking boyfriend in tow. It's a sight that never fails to charm and amuse me.
So that's what's happening at the pond. I'll be sure to keep you updated as the summer goes on, because it seems inevitable that some sneaky duck will hatch a few ducklings in spite of me. It happened last year, and it's why the pond is now blessed with Baby Fuzz, who laid twelve eggs this spring, and Peepers, who will undoubtedly find himself a girlfriend next year.
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for stopping by! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Friday, April 25, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
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.
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.
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