New Duckling Pic (8-17-10)

Here is the latest pic of our new grandbaby, taken over the weekend. We still don't know the sex of the new arrival that we're calling "BD", for Baby Duck. I tried to get a better pic of mother and child outside, but Momma is very protective and gets between me and the little one every time I get too close, even shooing BD back into the coop when she gets over-annoyed with me.

The baby's leg is healing up nicely. We were afraid we'd have to put it down last week when BD suffered a broken leg in the pond. The vet said it was already healing and suggested we give it time and keep the baby inside the coop to rest for a few weeks. We let them out for about an hour at a time, two or three times a day to join the rest of the ducks. BD is healing quickly and is hardly limping at all now.

We've noticed that some of the bass in the pond have had babies and the mothers have naturally been very protective of them. We figure BD got too close to the fry and one of the momma fish went on the attack. I had no idea  there was so much drama going on here at Morning Wood Acres.

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Breaking: The Duck Wrangler is a Grandpappy!

Took a look out in the coop today and guess what? Our first grandbaby! Isn't it adorable? Mother and duckling are doing just fine. The other ducks have been popping in to visit the new arrival and they're all so excited. 


Only 6 or 7 more eggs to go.  What have we gotten ourselves into?

Duck Wrangler Update: Ducklings could hatch any day

You may remember from some of my earlier posts that Paul and I have ducks. It wasn't something that we planned. Paul surprised me with eight ducklings a few years back as an Easter present. We've lost a few and gained a few new ones over the years, but it looks like these birds may be the gift that keeps on giving.

One of our females has been sitting on her nest for about four weeks, refusing to come out of the coop more than once a day to eat and splash around in the pond for a little while. We've seen four eggs, although she may have laid more in there by now.

What makes this noteworthy is that the kind of ducks we have, Pekins, aren't very good breeders. They're bred for poultry and don't have a very good nesting instinct due to the over-breeding. They usually lay one egg a day and walk away from it. If  you want to raise them, you have to collect the eggs and put them in an incubator. We haven't done that, because, well, we're sort of looking forward to the day when we can once again be a duck free zone.

Don't get me wrong, we love our feathered children and the illness, injury, or loss of one of them is always very upsetting. They are trained to put themselves to bed at sundown every day, but  one of us has to be home to close and lock the coop after they're in and to let them out and feed them each morning. It can be inconvenient and sometimes keeps us from staying late at parties. Any trips we make out of town have to be day trips and we have to be home by sundown. The alternative is to pay someone to stop by twice a day, which can get expensive.

So, when or if we see any grand-ducklings hatching, I'll post some pics. The usual gestation period is about fours weeks, so it could be any day now.

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The Duck Wrangler Rides Again

More duck drama here at Morning Wood Acres.

I was at home alone Sunday afternoon watching a movie while Paul was out running some errands. Through the window next to the TV, I noticed some commotion in the pond. One of the ducks was flapping its wings wildly, struggling to swim. I ran outside to see that it appeared to be dragging something attached to its foot. I couldn't make out exactly what the large object was, but I had a suspicion.

I grabbed a large stick and quickly crossed the footbridge to the small island in the middle of the pond. As the flailing duck slowly made its way past me I saw it - a very large snapping turtle had chomped down on the duck's leg and had it in in a vice-like grip.

I started beating the turtle with the stick and after a few good whacks to its head, it released the injured duck and swam away. The wounded duck made its way up to a muddy sand bar and limped a few feet before resting in a swampy area that I couldn't get to.

Before the charges of animal cruelty start, let me say that I love animals. The last thing I would ever do is deliberately cause pain or injury to any of them, domestic or wild. But snapping turtles are dangerous, not mention tough. This prehistoric-looking monster was about 18 inches long from its head to the end of its tail, which had alligator-like ridges along its length. They can grow to over 2 feet long. The shell on this one was about 12 by 8 inches and its head was about the size of a golf ball. Once they bite down on something, they don't let go. The snapper was stunned enough to release the its grip and that's all I wanted.

Living in the country for the last decade has taught me to be practical. Here in Floyd County, if a predator - a fox, bobcat, dog or anything else - is attacking you or your animals, you can legally shoot it. I don't own a gun, but if I did, I probably would have shot that turtle.

I kept an eye on the injured duck as he eventually made his way up the bank and rejoined the flock. I tried getting close enough to assess the injuries, but each time, he'd hobble away. Not wanting to make the injury worse, I decided to wait for Paul to get home to help.

By the time Paul got back, the duck had moved into the rhododendron thicket in the back yard. Our first attempt to round him up was fruitless. Rather than cause more trauma, we waited until sundown, when the ducks would make their way to the coop. Once they were in, we removed the top of the coop, I climbed in amongst the panicked and squawking birds, threw a towel over him and handed him to Paul. We washed the wound and treated it with iodine.

The duck, which we determined was our alpha-male, named Saturday (as in the Elton John classic, Saturday Night's Alright For Fightin'), has been resting comfortably in a large pet carrier in the basement.

Our regular vet's phone number was disconnected and there was no new listing for him in the phone book. After several phone calls, Paul found a vet that works on ducks and made an appointment.

Aaah, the simple country life.

UPDATE: August 10

Unfortunately we had to have our duck, Saturday, put down yesterday afternoon. Apparently, flies had gotten at the wounds and laid eggs. The vet said the infestation was pretty bad. He said he could treat it, but the nerve damage would have been extensive and permanent.

We will miss Saturday.

Blogger, Activist, Duck Wrangler

We've had our ducks for about 5 or 6 years and in all that time they've been free-range, but have never left our property. They're Pei kin ducks, the large white ones that you see in local parks and petting zoos. Most people think of them as domestic ducks, but they were originally bred in China for food. Their bodies are too heavy for their wings to support, so they can't fly.

Our pond is one of three at the end of our road. They were all dug by the same man who also built our house, as well as the empty house next door, which he's been trying to sell for the last nine months.

I was at work Tuesday evening, at about 6:50 pm getting things wrapped up to go home, when I heard the intercom: "Steve, you have a call on 51. Steve, line 51, please."

I picked up. Paul was checking to make sure I'd be leaving on time. "The ducks are in the neighbor's pond. I need you to help me get them back."

At the end of my 40-minute commute, I pulled into the driveway to find Paul loading the canoe into the back of the pickup. "Oh my god.", I thought. "He's got a plan."

The thing about owning ducks is you have to watch out for predators. They have to be kept in a coop at night. Over the years, two were attacked by raccoons. One survived, one didn't. There are also bobcats, foxes, coyotes, bears and neighborhood dogs to worry about.

After some training, our ducks have gotten into the habit of wondering back to the coop at sundown and putting themselves to bed. All we have to do is close and lock the door behind them. We always have to make sure one of us is home before dark. If we want to go to a movie or a party and have to leave home before sundown, we have to round them up and herd them to the coop.

If they're in the yard, no problem. You just get behind them and flap your arms, walking slowly but steadily toward the coop saying, "Go on, ducks! Go on!", and they scoot right in.

If they're in the pond, however, it's a lot like what we went through last night.

While Paul drove next door with the canoe, I parked and went to the back yard to get the hunting gear: two very large beach towels to throw over them and two long sticks to prod (not hit) them with. As I turned to leave, I looked over to the left to see all four ducks right there in the yard. I shouted to Paul, "They're right here!"

"Get over here, now!", echoed through the woods.

"What the fuck?", I muttered to myself.

I arrived at the pond next door to find Paul with one foot in the canoe and one on the bank, trying not to fall in. Wishing I'd brought my camera, he tells me, "I got two more ducks today, but the other ducks ran them off and they ran over here."

"You did what?", I asked.

"I went down to John Paul's place and bought two females to give Sunday a break."

Sunday is our last surviving female duck. Being the lone female among three males has been hard on her. She got her name about four years ago after she'd been attacked by a raccoon. When we took her to the vet, the girl at the counter needed a name to put on the forms. I told her, "For what this is gonna cost me, she should've been Sunday dinner, so lets just call her Sunday." She didn't laugh.

As Paul paddled out into the pond, he called out his plan to me. The ducks were on the island in the middle of the pond. I would cross the foot bridge to the island, and shoo the ducks into the water. He would herd them over to the bank as I ran back around to get there first and herd them back over to our yard.

The ducks had other plans.

I did my part and the ducks jumped into the water -- in opposite directions. One headed to the right side of the pond and the other headed down to the far end of the pond to the left.

I held onto the canoe as Paul scrambled to get out, again trying not to fall in. Still wearing my blue and purple "Shminko's" uniform, I headed off to the far left end of the pond, carrying my trusty sticks, a large bright green and blue beach towel flapping in the breeze as I ran. I was quite a site as a neighbor drove by an waved.

For the next hour we chased the ducks in and out of creeks, brambles, raspberry thickets, poison ivy, swamps and woods as the sun set lower and lower. Finally they were nowhere to be seen. The little fuckers had given us the slip.

Defeated, we decided to head home and try again in the morning. As we walked to the truck, I glanced over towards another neighbor's driveway to see a lone white duck waddling along by the fence, fifty yards from where we had last spotted her.

Paul whispered, "I'll get behind her, you come up along side and we'll herd her back to our place."

She darted ahead of Paul, as I, holding my big green and blue towel stretched out, got her to move in the right direction. Like a boarder collie, I herded her up our driveway, past our pond, around the house, into the back yard and towards the coop.

After everything that had happened so far, this was too good to be true. But, as we closed in on our target, the little bitch hooked a right turn and darted into a rhododendron thicket. I yelled to Paul to get a flashlight.

Again, I found myself creeping through a tangle of twisted branches. Crouching, crawling and getting just close enough before she'd scurry away into the dark. I was done.

At least one of them was back on our property. Neither of us knew where the other duck was and I, for one, didn't give a damn any more. As I made my way back to the house, I said, "We'll deal with it in the morning, if she's still alive."

The other four ducks were already tucked snugly in the coop as trained. I closed the door and remembered Paul's words from six years ago, "Let's get some ducks. They're so cuuute!"

"Bite me!", I grumbled under my breath.

For the rest of the night, Paul went out now and then to look around, but no sign of our slippery prey.

This morning at 7:30, the alarm sounded and I began my usual routine. Start the coffee, turn on the laptop, get the paper from the mailbox by the road, let the ducks out and feed them.

As I approached the coop, I could see two white ducks in the bushes next to it. The other four were still inside, squawking to get out. During the night these two had found each other and ended up where we wanted them to be in the first place.

Ducks are like that. They do things in their own time, on their own terms. It's usually what you wanted them to do in the first place, but they can't resist making a fool out of you first. The icing on the cake is that one of the new ducks is actually a male.

They all spent the day getting to know each other and working out the new pecking order. When it was time for bed, I went out to find three already in the coop and three milling about outside. I circled around behind them, walked slowly but steadily toward the coop, flapped my arms and said, "Go on ducks! Go on!" They filed into the coop and I shut and locked the door.

I can still hear them fussing with each other as they work out the sleeping arrangements.

They're so cuuute!