The Duck on My Driveway
Be safe, little duck. Be well.
I was out of town when I got a Ring notification: There is a Person at your Driveway.
It was around seven p.m.
I checked the video. There was no person. Only a white-and-brown duck that stood on the driveway and looked up at the house.
We live at a two-minute walk from a lake that is home to several species of duck. There are Muscovy, magpie, mallard, black-bellied whistlers, and — white ducks with brown markings.
Occasionally, a duck will wander into our front yard to dig for worms. I didn’t give our latest visitor much thought. It would return to the lake soon enough.
Ducking under the SUV…
I got back home the following afternoon. I opened the garage door, then stopped. Between my car and the garage stood the duck I had seen on the Ring video feed the evening before.
I got out and walked towards it, shouting and waving my arms. Big mistake.
I had blocked the duck from the front. Now it took the only escape route available. It waddled in through the open garage door and hid under the SUV parked inside.
I was in a fix. With the duck inside, I couldn’t shut the garage door. But I couldn’t leave it open either. Who knew what other critters might get in there?
I bent down and crooned, “Hey, baby.” “Come out, liddle duckie.”
Duckie was not impressed. He retreated further under the vehicle. (At this point, I decided it was a he.)
I had to lure him out of the garage. Somehow.
I went inside and unearthed a wooden vase deep enough for a duck to drink from. I filled it with cool water and placed the vase a few feet out from the SUV.
I retreated into the house and watched from the window.
The duck came out from under the SUV. It drank long and deep from the vase.
Then it stepped onto the driveway. It walked up to the door of the sunroom. There it lay down, with its head on its wing.
I closed the garage door with the remote.
I stepped out at five p.m. to feed my composter. The duck still lay curled up on the driveway. I couldn’t think why he hadn’t gone back to the lake.
I went around from the front door and topped up the vase with fresh water. My visitor waited until I had retreated to a distance of about ten feet. Then he got up and moved towards the water.
His left leg dragged as he walked.
Maybe he needed to stay here for a while until his leg mended.
But then it wasn’t enough to give him water. He also needed food.
I defrosted a cup of corn and green peas and strewed them near the vase. He ignored the food and limped back to his chosen spot.
When I was locking up late at night, he was still there.
The next morning, I heard quacking from the front yard.
I went outside and saw the duck crossing the lawn. He moved slowly across three more front yards until he got to the end of the lane. A bunch of kids waited there for the school bus.
The kids called out to him. He stood with them for a couple of minutes until their bus arrived. Then he limped after the bus and into the middle of the intersection.
He stopped there while a car or two went around him. Then he turned in the direction of the lake. He was now barely a minute away from his home.
I went back to my own home to finish breakfast.
Knock knock…
Around noon, I heard the drone of the lawnmower. I opened the front door to give the gardener his check. And there — on the other side of the threshold — stood the duck.
I gasped and shut the door. Then I thought: Is he trying to tell me something? Is he thirsty or hungry?
I went around to the front. My feathered friend was standing on the porch nibbling on my potted begonia.
I set down his water on the walkway. He gulped it down but stepped over the chopped cantaloupe that I had laid out. Then he went back to his spot on the driveway.
The quacking woke me up before sunrise the next day. The duck was in his usual place, but he was standing now and flapping his wings. Under his left wing, I saw a large splotch of dried blood.
The scoop on a duck…
I posted on my Nextdoor neighborhood group, asking how I could get help for an injured duck.
A neighbor sent me a link to the Texas Wildlife Rehabilitation Coalition: https://www.twrcwildlifecenter.org.
I called the center. They asked me to put the bird in a box and drop it off at their facility.
I explained to the staff member that I wasn’t used to animals. I didn’t even own pets. How was I to get the duck in a box?
“It’s not that hard,” she replied. “Just get a thick towel, put it on the bird, scoop it up, and put it in the box.
Seriously?
I was pretty sure that if I tried scooping up the duck, there would soon be two injured animals — me and the duck.
The duck would most certainly resist my terrified and fumbling efforts. It would defend itself with its strong bill and claws. And even if I geared myself to do the towel-and-scoop bit, I might suffocate the duck and further injure its wing.
I spent the morning and most of the afternoon calling up one wildlife agency after the other. Only one of them offered to pick up the bird. But when I gave my address, they said: Sorry, we don’t service your county.
I finally called a paid animal-control service. The guy quoted a steep amount to remove just one medium-sized duck.
Arrival of the Cavalry…
At four p.m., I was haranguing the SPCA in a last-ditch effort to get help when my daughter, N, came over. She was accompanied by her friend and business partner, *Siya (not her real name).
They had to leave within the hour to drive to an out-of-town appointment.
They saw the duck and asked what I planned to do with him. Could a wildlife organization pick him up?
I said, “No. I have to get him into a box, then drop him off.”
“I can try wrangling him into a box,” Siya said.
She’s more used to animals than either N or I. She has two dogs and had worked, for a while, as a dog sitter.
They decided that N would deal with the two client calls that were scheduled to start right away. Siya would stay with me and figure out the “duck thingy.”
While Siya watched YouTube videos on how to wrangle ducks into boxes, I dug up a large plastic container.
I called the wildlife agency whose number I had gotten from the SPCA.
“We closed for animal intake an hour ago,” they said. “You can bring it in tomorrow morning.”
But N and Siya couldn’t stay overnight. So, now what?
“One of the numbers I called was this animal-control guy,” Siya told me. “But his charges run pretty high.”
It turned out that we had both spoken with the same guy. Mike.
The duck was quacking repeatedly now — its mouth opening and closing in a way that was painful to watch. The limp was more pronounced. And the rust-brown stain beneath its wing gleamed moistly.
“Let’s go with Mike,” I said.
Siya called Mike and got him to lop fifty dollars off his asking price. “He’ll be here in forty-five minutes,” she said.
In Mike we trust…
Mike showed up in twenty. He drove a pickup and brought a furry friend.
The young border collie stuck its head out the driver’s seat window to watch the wrangling.
Mike sauntered up to the duck. The duck watched as he came closer, then got to its feet and began to run. Mike chased and quickly cornered the animal, then scooped it up.
The duck stopped quacking and sat quietly in his captor’s arms.
Mike placed him in a cage he had brought. “Yeah, he’s wounded. Looks like a hawk attack.”
“Will he be okay?” I asked.
“You saw him run when I chased him,” Mike said. “No way he could do that if there was damage to his bones or spinal cord.”
“What’ll you do with him now?” Siya wanted to know.
“I’ll clean the wound. Apply an antibiotic — “
“And afterward?”
“If the wound isn’t deep, I’ll release him near a lake. If not, I’ll take him to a friend’s ranch. He keeps all kinds of animals.”
What can I say? In Mike we trust.
Siya and N insisted on splitting Mike’s fee with me.
“We’re invested in our duck,” Siya joked.
Mike sent me a picture afterward.
Our duck standing on the bank of a reedy lake.
Be safe, little duck. Be well.
