Ducks

When I think about ducks, I picture my mother’s pets. She saved Lucy and Fran from a swampy area when I was 16 years old. The little ducks were weak and sick. My mother helped them to get healthy.

Lucy and Fran lived in a large cardboard box in the garage. They became family pets. They were members of our family. Lucy followed me around. She quacked and quacked. She liked attention.

My brother Tim read everything he could find about ducks. He learned to care for our pets. He made sure that the box in the garage was fit for our pets. It had a heat lamp and a feeder. He gave them water, shavings, and fresh straw each day. What a hit! Lucy and Fran loved their house. They quacked to say, “Thank you!”

One rainy morning, Lucy waddled near me to the mailbox. She walked so close we bumped into each other. I tumbled into a gigantic mud puddle. All the letters from the mailbox got wet and soggy. They dripped with muddy, brown water.

To make things worse, Tim watched from the window. When I got back into the house, he was on the kitchen floor holding the sides of his stomach. He roared with laughter.

I stomped my feet and threw up my arms. My mom calmly listened to me shout and carry on. “It’s okay, honey. If you prefer to splash in puddles, you can trade beds with the ducks!” she comforted.

With that in mind, I went to the garage and made my peace with the ducks. My own bed looked a lot better than their shavings and heat lamp.