It is a truth universally acknowledged that a family in possession of a good pond must be in want of some ducks. Or so, my neighbour, Lizzie surmised in 2020 when she found herself looking for a new home for her noisy ducks whose incessant quacking was interrupting her husband’s lockdown zoom calls. “Of course we’ll have them,” I chimed, never one to turn down the opportunity of a new pet. I knew nothing of ducks, but did know we had a lovely pond, with an island that I hoped would keep them safe from the fox. And so Salt and Vinegar arrived, named after the very best flavour of crisps, and very soon stole our hearts. They didn’t require a great deal of care, just feeding daily but soon their thrum and gentle presence on our pond became part of the beating heart of our life.
The island proved good protection from the fox, until the following winter when it froze over completely, providing sturdy access for a hungry predator. First Salt went and the following day Vinegar disappeared too. We were desperately sad, we felt guilty that we’d been unable to protect them and we missed their lyrical quacking.
A few months later a friend contacted me. A couple were getting divorced, she was being booted out of the family home, he wanted the animals gone too and needed to find homes for 50 odd ducks. We’ll take some, I promised immediately, before persuading two other families, similarly endowed with ponds, to take some too. I drove to collect them, the car stuffed with cardboard boxes that we were promised would be perfect for transportation. Our return journey was far from relaxed, with twelve ducks desperate to escape their kidnapping in flimsy cardboard prisons. Iona and her friend Bella were tasked with preventing escape, crouching in the boot bravely holding the tops closed while I raced home along the lanes before the car was littered with irate avians.
Quackers, Marmite and Oreo were a fabulous trio. Ben immediately set about commissioning a large duck house, a veritable palace with sliders that would enable us to access it for cleaning but also allowing the ducks to access it only from the pond. This would keep them safe from the fox, we surmised. And indeed it would have, if only they would actually go into it. We tried feeding them in it, we tried only feeding them in it, but try as we might, the ducks made it clear they’d rather starve then set foot inside Duckingham Palace. That spring a visiting wild duck thought it looked a suitable place to nest and produced 12 ducklings, but still our runners refused to go inside.
This time the fox played a long game, and took Marmite one night and when a few weeks later we found Oreo dead on the pond, we knew we needed to find company for Quackers. Ducks, you see, are sociable animals and pine for company. Our neighbour offered his ducks (part of the original post-divorce-cardboard-box-duck-rescue) - “if you can catch them”. And so armed with a swimming pool net, a hockey stick, some waders and, having learnt our lesson with the cardboard boxes, a guinea pig travel case, we headed off to fetch them. Three hours later, with the help of twelve people (okay, three of them were under the age of five), the ducks had won. We ceded defeat and returned to our lonely Quackers without mates.
But then Benny arrived. Benny had been part of a foursome - sadly Agnetha, Bjorn and Anni had perished and Benny was living, unhappily, with some peacocks. It was love at first sight for these two drakes and for at least a year, our two bachelors lived in happy harmony on our pond. We invested in a bubbler that not only improved the clarity of the water but also prevented it from freezing. They still steadfastly refused to enter Duckingham Palace, but as long as they survived, we didn’t mind.
But when Quackers was taken one night, we started to ask ourselves if it was fair to keep ducks when the fox would inevitably get them. I’m pretty pragmatic about these things and believe a good life is about its quality rather than its length. Seeing those ducks roaming free on our pond, at liberty to swim and dive and forage for snails in the long grass, free to savage any wild ducks that tried to land on their pond and roost in the sun on the island is surely the very best life a duck can live. Ben disagreed, it’s too painful, always losing them, he maintained. We can’t get any more.
And so I did what any determined wife would do. I waited until he was travelling, and got more ducks. I wanted rescues and joined half a dozen Facebook groups, sending pictures of the bucolic life I could offer. I realised though that duck harmony is not just about a lovely pond. You need to be careful with the breed and the ratio of males to females. I ended up buying four males from a delightful man in Leicestershire who told me that, because they don’t lay, males often don’t find homes. “I’ll have them,” I shrilled. And so the four babies arrived. A gaggle of duck teenagers, big enough to live on the pond, but prone to tripping over their own feet.
Benny, having become more introverted and less interested in his food since Quackers went, was delighted. As soon as the babies arrived, they existed as one organism, doing everything together. If one was diving, they were all diving, if one was cleaning himself, they all followed. They sit outside our kitchen window demanding their food, but like a lie-in, so it’s not usually until about 8am.
Food is a great passion of theirs but they’re fussy. I’d heard ducks absolutely love peas and mealworms. And so I spent thirty quid on a large bag of mealworms, a special treat for my beloved ducks, and they turned their beaks up at them. No way, they said, that’s not our food, we don’t like it. Same with the peas. At least I could repurpose the peas. The mealworms are still in my kitchen, a brazen reminder that the ducks rule the proverbial roost.
They do like the horses’ food though. I have to soak it and recently noticed strange little holes in the mash. What could those be, I wondered, for about a week, until I caught them in the act, running away from the buckets with Keep Calm Mash clearly visible on their beaks.
Sadly the fox came a visiting this week again and our five are now down to four. Again this ethical question arose. Is it right to keep them if we can’t keep them safe. It’s a conversation I had with the man in Leicestershire who I bought them from. I wanted to be completely transparent and explained that we can’t shut them up at night. He asked me to send him a video of our pond and responded immediately. “That pond you have is duck heaven. You offer them the kind of life that most ducks never get to experience. It’s about the happiest a duck could be. If they get to experience that, but not for long, then so be it. Their lives will be very happy.”
I hold on to these words as I feed the ducks in the evening, as I lock up the house and bid them goodnight. And as hard as it is, I know we’re doing the right thing, as the happy quacking reminds me, it’s better to add life to your days rather than days to your life, especially if you’re a duck.
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