We had four drakes and two ducks, which was going to prove a problem when they were older; indeed we had even talked of the necessity of serving up some of the drakes 'a l'orange' but we didn't get that far.
Last night, as dusk fell, I went out to put them to bed. I've been training them: I say "bedtime duckies", they quack and queue to go into their pen, indian file. They were beginning to get the hang of it too. Last night there were only three to say "bedtime duckies" to.
I searched, as darkness fell, knowing all the while that it was a futile search. This morning we found a patch of forlorn feathers. The missing ducks are, of course, the prettiest. We only had one which had the typical call duck call: She's gone.
The missing ducks are the one at the back above, not in the water, with the coloured back feathers; the one nearest the camera in the water (the noisy one) and the one just seen beyond her.
I was heartbroken. I really shouldn't keep ducks, I get too fond of them.
Hannah, who is five, said something along the lines of: "Never mind, Mummy, I expect a fox and his family had them for their dinner. There was a daddy fox, a mummy fox and a baby fox and they all had a duck each." Every cloud has a silver lining, apparently. So we lost three ducks, but the foxes had something nice to eat. Gee, thanks, Pollyanna!
So we have three left. Today. But Mr Fox, Mrs Fox and Master Fox know there is another feathery dinner in my vegetable garden. Sitting there. Like ducks.
