Saturday, April 24, 2010

Lucky Duckies

Memphis is famous for its barbecue, Elvis Presley, Beale Street, and—duck hunting. Each May, pork connoisseurs travel from far and wide for the barbecue contest; in February the Elvis fans gather from all corners of the globe to pay homage to the king of rock and roll; and in Autumn scores of men and boys in trucks and camouflage descend on the city for the activity that is as much a part of Southern heritage as football and grits.

As a transplanted Yankee, I’ve embraced most things Southern, but no one has been able to convince me that shooting helpless animals is a sport. I’ve heard all of the arguments in favor of the gruesome pastime, but I remain unconvinced.

As a bird lover, the only way I’ve been able to help is to provide a little respite for the ducks passing by en route to their natural habitats. I stop short of hanging out a shingle, but birds know that our yard—though not a five-star operation—provides fine dining, a heated pool, and protection from gun-toting rednecks.

Each year we have a pair of mallards who drop in for an extended stay. I don’t know whether they are the same birds or a different couple that has come upon the recommendation of the first. Apparently word travels fast in the duck community. Because ducks are monogamous (at least for a season), I like to think the pair books the honeymoon suite each year for their anniversary.

I am a bird watcher so having these guests in my backyard provides a close-up look. I love to watch their little webbed feet paddling under the water propelling them all around the pool like the wind-up toy my children used in the bathtub. In a murky pond, when you can’t see the source of their propulsion, it looks as if they are gliding on ice.

On the pool deck I scatter grain and bread crumbs to keep them fat and sassy. But my husband, Jim, the resident curmudgeon and pool-man, complains about the mess they leave. Unfortunately, they can’t read the sign meant for our human guests: “I don’t swim in your potty. Don’t potty in my pool.”

Recently we witnessed a blessed event. On a summer Sunday afternoon, we came home from church to find the momma Mallard and her brood of seven, happily paddling in the pool. In spring and early summer, to avoid human predators, ducks sometimes nest well away from the water. Probably the female laid her eggs nearby and brought the baby quackers to our “cement pond” for their first swimming lesson. The daddy duck was nowhere to be seen. Like many human fathers, the male takes no responsibility in caring for the offspring. He was probably out with his pals on the golf course.


When we approached, the momma duck swam vigorously to the opposite side, followed dutifully by her young family. But when she jumped out of the pool, the little ones flapped their wings to no avail. They were trapped. Getting into the pool was easy but getting out presented an unanticipated problem. Unlike the ponds she usually frequented, this one had no means of escape. The eight-inch jump from the water’s edge to the concrete was easy for Momma but impossible for her babies.

We had to come to the rescue. The ducks couldn’t stay there until they grew big enough to make the jump. “Grab a kickboard,” I called to my husband, but the kickboard had to be held by human hands and the wary mother wasn’t coming close. “How about a rubber raft?” Same problem. Jim went into the garage and brought out a large piece of plywood making a handicapped ramp for the brood. We chased the mother toward the board, but at the last minute she veered to the right or left and hopped out the side. Obviously, she didn’t understand our escape plan.

Finally, amidst much squawking and trauma, Jim chased the mother duck out of the pool and swept the babies up into the leaf basket. The distraught mother must have thought the ducklings were to be the main course for our Sunday dinner. They tumbled out onto the ground and waddled away, under the wooden fence, back to their nearby nest.

Maybe next year, I should direct the Mallards toward the historic Peabody Hotel where the accommodations far surpass ours. At the Peabody, ducks receive the treatment they deserve. They have their own duck master who literally rolls out the red carpet for the feathered celebrities as they waddle from the elevator to the marble fountain where they swim all day in climate-controlled comfort. The lucky ducks enjoy the same amenities as the hotel patrons—excepting alcoholic beverages. At night they retire to their sleeping quarters on the roof with a view of the city. They rest safe and secure because the only shots being taken are by the scores of photo-snapping tourists.

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