Hey there! What’s quacking? Get it? Like the expression “what’s cracking” except better. I’m Big Fred, and I’m a duck with a veritable tragic backstory, but that doesn’t keep me from laughing.
When I was a duckling I lived at another home with my duck friend Velma, but when she passed on my previous family didn’t want me to get lonely, so they gave me away to my current family because they had another two ducks and a bunch of chickens.
This family tries their best. They even set up a cool double sectioned duck pond for me with constantly flowing and draining water. They had to put steps into it though, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get out on my own.
I’m not fat, but I am very large, which is why my name went from Fred to Big Fred. My excellent girth makes it difficult for me to walk long distances, although sometimes I find that it’s easier if I flap my wings really strongly as I try to walk or run. My walking ability isn’t helped by the large abscess that’s on one of my feet, either. The vet says to just leave it alone, but it’s annoying, if you ask me.
At this house the rest of the flock and I get to go free range for a few hours each evening. This way, we can eat some tastier grass, bugs and anything else we might come across. We ducks didn’t always get along with the chickens; sometimes we would chase at each other or make quite a ruckus with quacking and squawking. At the end of the day, though, we were still all one flock and we slept in the same coop.
Unfortunately, the best things in life never seem to last. On one terrible day our flock was attacked by one of the two family dogs and the majority of our flock was killed. I was also attacked. My back was torn open and one of my legs was broken, but then because I couldn’t run, I was spared as a less interesting prey item. The only other survivor was Cluck-Cluck who managed to flee to the other side of the stream.
Afterwards, to make matters worse, the bite wound on my back became infested with maggots. It took hours to get them all off of me, but fortunately my human family was dedicated to doing so. After that, they kept me in the house for a while. They let me swim in the bathtub to strengthen my leg, and just because it made me very happy. I was also allowed to sleep in the parents’ bedroom, and the mom would even take me to work with her sometimes. There, I would just sit in her office on the floor next to her all day. She joked that I was her emotional support duck, even though I’m not sure she believes fully in the idea.
Since then, I’ve recovered enough to continue living outside. Cluck-Cluck and I spend a lot of time together now, like we never did before. It’s much quieter than it used to be, but we’re healing. I can walk on my own again, and Cluck-Cluck has begun laying eggs again. She stopped for a while after the massacre. Trauma has a funny way of affecting everyone, I guess.
Life has an even funnier way of being everything, and then all at once being gone. It’s important to appreciate the kindnesses, like being brought inside and pet for hours, even when you get feathers all over the floor and soil dozens of towels. It’s important to appreciate the relationships you never expected, like being best friends and sole survivors with a chicken. It all comes down to love and pity. We need to take care of eachother, in the hard times more than ever before.
