“I want ducks,” my husband said with a giddy childlike grin,
eyes twinkling.
“Um, okay,” I responded in my usual pessimistic, doubtful
attitude I reserve for the absurd and unfamiliar.
So he got a couple ducks, mallards to be exact from some guy
he met in Battle Ground off a Craigslist post. Kendra, our broody hen, was introduced
to them late one night and was so freaked out by them she went to the opposite
side of the ferret cage they were in and left them alone to freeze. Long story
short, I decided to pick up a couple more chicks at the feed store that had
been there for a few weeks to raise with the ducklings since they were going to
require a lot of care and have the same basic requirements. Well, except that
ducks like to swim and chickens freak out over such a thing. I have a feeling a
kiddy pool will be a near-future purchase for them.
Ducks scare the heck out of me. Ever been chased by one around and around in circles, with the thing trying to sink its beak into your behind? I have. It's not something one gets over very quickly! (Well, maybe by the time you've finished the last bites of that night's Peking Duck.)
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