Anyone who reads my columns will know I’m a complete sap when it comes to animals.
If you see a family of stray anythings pulling their luggage through the brush, odds are very high they’re heading to my house. When we were kids, my parents were the same – particularly my Dad. One minute we weren’t to bring another cat, dog or rabbit through the door, and the next, he was trying to think of a good name for the latest ball of fluff smuggled in by his children.
My best friend/housemate Lynne and I have eight cats and a host of resident chickens. Some of the cats have medical issues, which means daily pills, blood tests and injections. Seven of the chickens are in a coop, so they require food and water morning and night and regular cleaning of their abode, including a changeout of hay. The key, as I’ve mentioned in the past, is to feed all the wild chickens at the back of the garden to keep them occupied while we complete our coop chores.
Twice a day we hear the ‘Mission Impossible’ theme in our heads as we walk out to the backyard, carrying a tub of cracked corn through the waiting hordes. Whoever thinks chickens are stupid hasn’t seen them slowly gather around feeding time, before we even approach the door. The cats won’t go out around 5pm, as it is bush-to-bush feathers in the way and those beaks look dangerous.
Often I feel like a plump Tippi Hedren making that backyard journey, as roosters and hens fly over my head to the roof, trying to get the best launching spot for when the corn hits the ground. It’s pretty chaotic, which is why you’d probably think I’d be completely over birds by now.
Nothing could be further from the truth, proven by the unexpected arrival of whistling ducks to our little enclave about two weeks ago.
I have always envied those who are graced with visits from ducks. My friend posts videos of her neighbourhood duckies, and when a mother brought new ducklings to meet her, well, I was beside myself. So, when these two new feathered creatures landed on the back patio, I was basically shoving everyone out of the way to get to them.
As if their presence wasn’t enough, they also seemed pretty tame. They spied that we had food for the chickens, and they came right up to get some themselves. Gasp! Just call me Vicki Attenborough.
It didn’t take long for the chickens to twig that I had become a fair-feather friend. After years of being coddled and even trained to fly up onto my arm for treats, they were now being unceremoniously cast aside for the new kids in town.
At first, they kept their distance. I could envision the meetings in the roosts at night.
“Look, these ducks are the latest shiny thing; that’s why she’s acting like their poop doesn’t smell and chirps like an idiot when they nip her fingers by mistake. Let’s give it a few days. She’ll be ‘whistling’ a different tune when they draw blood or start ignoring her. Just gather at 1700 hours tomorrow for feeding time, as usual, and let’s see how this plays out… ”
Well, the ducks kept coming back each day, and I won’t lie – they were getting the VIP treatment. Each time I saw them sunning on the deck, I just had to get them some food, and they were always happy to oblige and eat it.
“I only fed them an hour ago,” Lynne yelled from the bowels of the house. “If we keep going like this, they won’t be able to get off the ground by next week.”
Come day five of Duckocalypse, the chickens had had enough. Clearly, this new romance had legs, and they weren’t going to put up with it any longer. A couple of well-proportioned hens (‘The Heavies’) started squawking at the ducks when there was food on the ground, muscling in to grab a kernel or two. Then the roosters followed suit, and even the baby chicks started showing their true colours. The ducks beat their wings a bit, and jabbed with their bills, but then they would waddle off – unwilling to engage with the Seven Mile Fowl Mafia.
The next day, they didn’t show up at our property. They came back the day after for a while, but since then, no sign of them at all. It’s been nearly a week. I keep hoping they’ll return. I go outside making noises (I think) like a duck, which is easy at the moment, as my head is full of cold, but they haven’t appeared yet.
Meanwhile, last night in the backyard, I’d swear I saw the chickens dragging something resembling a catapult into the branches of our ackee tree.
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