Goodbye ‘Mrs’, our female duck, you are being mourned
Last week, our elderly white Indian Runner duck, Mrs, began to look under the weather. She was nine years old, and up until then, she had never suffered a day's poor health. She was still eating well, and she was bright and alert, but she stumbled and lost her footing when trying to keep up with her younger mate, Michael.
When I picked her up to examine her, it was obvious that she had lost weight. It seemed that old age was beginning to get the better of her. Indian Runners live for 8 - 10 years, so in duck terms, Mrs was well into her retirement.
She was the first duck to join our menagerie, back in 2005. I clearly remember the day she arrived. We had gone to a Poultry Fair with no intention of coming home with any purchases. There were all sorts of birds for sale, including a wide range of breeds of ducks and hens. My family had kept ducks when I was a child, and I had a fond memory of Indian Runners, but I had not yet thought about having some of our own.
While at the fair, I heard someone explaining how easy it was to keep ducks, and how they could be kept even in a small garden. I began to wonder if we might have space for our own ducks, but none of the birds on display appealed to me: they were brown, dull-looking birds.
Then we came upon a large cage containing two white Indian Runners. It was a cloudy, overcast day, but jat that moment, the sun came out, and the birds were lit up by a pool of sunlight. Their all-white feathers seemed radiant, as if they were whiter than white: it was as if it was meant to be. After a brief negotiation, we bought the young duck and drake, christened them ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’, and headed home.
We set up a large dog kennel as a ‘duck house’, in the middle of a fenced-in run, and the ducks became part of our home community. They were allowed out to wander around the garden during the day: ducks are an excellent, natural way of controlling plant pests such as slugs and snails. At dusk, they were locked inside their duck house, to protect them from the local fox.
Indian Runners are known as reliable egg layers, and Mrs excelled in this department. She laid one large blue egg daily for most of the year. Her breed has a reputation for being a little too flighty to be a good mother, but as it turned out, Mrs was a natural mother. Every summer, she hatched out a brood of six or eight ducklings. It was always obvious that ducklings were on the way: Mrs refused to get off her nest in the duck house. She scarcely budged for four weeks, cherishing her eggs for every moment of the day.
When the ducklings hatched, her dedication to her young was inspiring. She monitored them closely at all times, shepherding them around, using her long neck like a crook to catch them if they moved too far away from her.
When they first hatched, the ducklings looked like classic fluffy yellow Easter chicks, but within a few weeks, their downy fluff was replaced by the white feathers of the adult birds. We were always tempted to keep some of them, but we don't have enough space for more than two ducks, so every autumn, the ducklings were dispersed to new homes, and we were left with our two old reliable birds, Mr and Mrs. The two birds genuinely seemed like a comfortable married couple: they went everywhere together, walking around like a pair of wine-bottles-on-legs, quacking quietly to one another.
Four years ago, the drake, Mr, fell ill. He developed a strange neurological problem, first going blind, then starting to stagger. We did our best to save him, bringing him into our house to give him extra nursing. Mrs was visibly upset by his illness, waiting at the back door, quacking loudly whenever anyone came out, as if looking for news of her spouse. She stopped laying eggs: our duck world was having a crisis.
“Mrs the duck had enjoyed a long, contented life: there is much to be thankful for”
Sadly, Mr did not pull through, and Mrs was left on her own. She became a silent, withdrawn bird, so we decided that a new friend was called for. We bought a black Indian Runner drake this time: he was named Michael Flatley from the rapid pitter-patter of his feet as he ran around our garden. Mrs took to her new young ‘husband’ immediately, and the two of them were soon inseparable. Mrs continued to produce a batch of ducklings every summer. Last year, her egg laying slowed down then stopped, and she never became broody: she had come to the end of her breeding life.
When she fell ill last week, I could find no obvious cause of the problem: I suspected that it was just ‘old age’. My fears were confirmed two days ago: there was no cheerful quacking as I approached the duck house to let the birds out for the day. Mrs was lying, cold and silent, in her bed of straw. She had died in her sleep.
In the Wedderburn menagerie, this graceful, pleasant creature is being mourned, but we are trying to be upbeat. Mrs the duck had enjoyed a long, contented life: there is much to be thankful for.