They live on the fringe of the flock: outcasts. They have baggage.
Every morning you'll find them under the dying blackwood tree talking quietly as they wash and forage. The other ducks chatter in the orchard, assimilated.
I raised Roger and Dylan in the bathroom of my house in town. They swam under the warmth of a desk lamp, and came out to watch the news on the couch.
When they moved outside we would play on the lawn. I'd lay on my tummy and they'd walk along my back and tinker with my earrings and tease my hair.
Their confidence grew. I'd step outside with the washing and they'd sprint to the line. Roger would aim for the skin behind my knees and latch on - so great was his affection.
I contemplated a 'Beware of the Ducks' sign.
Quack-Quack is a dumped duck. She was an only child and her owners thought she'd be better-off eating our grain.
She's of "mixed breed" and appears to cogitate a lot.
The three spend most of their days together, but the boys do need Roger and Dylan Time. They have a special bond, these two.
Roger and Quack-Quack slid under the fence into the shelter belt the other day. Dylan was beside himself, wondering what they were up to.But when Quack-Quack goes under the conifer to lay her egg, the boys waddle and hide.
And Quack-Quack spends the afternoon by herself.
