Ducks (part 1)

As the snow melts, small flowers begin to bloom and migratory birds return; announcing that spring has arrived. Spring is a transitionary period taking us from winter to summer, and most look forward to sunshine, warming temperatures, and green sprouts. For those of us on farms, though, spring is when we welcome new life and begin rebuilding from the harsh nip of winter.

I've always held a fond place in my heart for ducks, despite growing up on a chicken farm, but I've only ever convinced my mother to buy me ducklings twice. Once now, once before.

In the winter of second grade, my family moved to Pennsylvania, and, as the spring approached, my mother quickly started building her farm. It was small at first, maybe fifteen chickens pecking at bugs in our backyard, but as the months passed that number grew exponentially. We were so excited about this new hobby, spending hours a day chasing and naming chickens (primarily Bob). But, as fall and then winter approached, we had to face the gritty reality of living on a farm; nothing lasts forever. As our chickens began getting sick, or just disappearing, I was confronted with death for the first time. It was tear-worthy as a child- finding one of our birds no longer breathing-the first couple deaths were marked with graves and flowers.

Once again, springtime approached and we prepared to bring new chicks into our den. We took two trips to the hatchery that spring. During the first trip, my sister and I explored the incubation room as my mother spoke to the owner. As we peered into boxes chirping with brown, grey, and red chicks, we came upon a box with just two small ducklings. The box was labeled "one eye'd duckling 50% off." In the box, a yellow duckling tilted its good-eye towards us, as a smaller, black duckling huddled at its eye-less side. The hatchery owner saw my interest and explained that if the disabled duckling didn't get bought, it would be condemned to death. Looking back, that was a crazy thing to tell an 8 year old, but, man, did that sales tactic work.

We didn't take the ducklings home with us the first trip, as I still had to convince my mother. I pestered her about this poor duck for days, pleading for her to not let it die, and eventually we made a deal; if the duck was still there in a week, we would bring him home.

On our second trip to the hatchery, I ran to the small brown box, grinning ear to ear as I found my duckling still there. The owner convinced us that we had to buy the one-eyed duckling a friend, since ducks are social creatures, so he boxed up the black duckling too and we were on our way. Driving home, I had an epiphany- the type you only get when you're in 3rd grade- I just had to name the duck "Bingo!" It was perfect; Bingo only has one "i" in it, just like the duck. And so, the whole drive home my sister and I sang "B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-oh!" It must have been so annoying for my poor mother.

When we got home, we bought a bright green kiddie pool and filled it in the backyard. Bingo and his (so far) unnamed friend swam in circles and splashed around for hours. It was exactly how I had imagined owning ducks would be. Eventually my older brother named the black duckling "Dawson," or "Ducky" for short (Aidan also named one of our cats, Dude, so yes- he has always been that creative).

For a while Bingo and Ducky were happy with each other, and it was obvious that they had became a bonded pair #GayDucks. As they grew up, Bingo became dependent on Ducky; He could only walk in circles, following his good eye, so Ducky had to shepherd him everywhere he went. Bingo's circling was endearing, until it was deadly.

In the fall of 4th grade I woke up to my mother telling me we had to bury Bingo before we left for school. Bingo's disability had hurt him for the last time; that morning, he circled himself down the hill into the neighbors yard. No amount of shepherding from Ducky could save him from the vicious bite of the neighbor's Doberman. So, I pulled on my leggings and pink zip-up hoodie, and helped my mom pull the wheelbarrow down to the site of the massacre. Tears ran down my face as my mother scooped Bingo's lifeless body into the cart, Ducky's panicked "Quack's" surrounding us.

I got to school late that day, my voice wobbling as I handed my teacher a note from my mother, explaining that my beloved pet duck had died that morning. The school day dragged on, my peers concerned about my tears, but unknowing how a duck could have caused this level of mourning.

Ducky was never the same after Bingo died. He tried to find comfort in every white-feathered chicken that he saw; surely looking for Bingo in each of them. Unfortunately for Ducky, though, chickens and ducks aren't meant to be together and each chicken he tried to bond with ended up dead. It was heartbreaking; watching this duck look for his lost partner to no avail.

Eventually, his sorrow became too dangerous for the flock around him, and we had to step in. We took Ducky to my grandparent's lake house, and released him to the water, hoping he might find the peace and companionship he was so obviously looking for.

I don't think I fully comprehended the severity of this love story as a child; I couldn't fathom the heartbreak of losing the one thing you loved most in life. After that, I didn't want ducklings anymore. My mother continued buying and hatching chickens every year, and my interest in the farm dwindled.

Four years ago, the neighbor's Doberman passed, once again reminding us about the circle of life. A year later, our yellow lab, Storm, had to be put down after a cruel battle with pneumonia. Over the years on the farm, we had gotten so used to death, but Storm's passing served as a reminder of how cruel it is to be loved; as love will always meet a tragic end.