THE PSYCHO KILLER DUCK

Rural Florida in the 1950’s was paradise to a small child, especially the place we found ourselves in 58! Dad had just landed his big job and we rented a sprawling house on 100 acres. It felt like our own private park! In front was a scenic lake filled with a flock of wild Mallard ducks.

The lake formed a lopsided figure 8 with one end significantly wider than the other. At the narrowest part was a little white bridge with cattails on each side. From there, we loved to fish.

Off to one side, surrounded and completely obscured by bamboo stalks was a small pond that flowed secretly into the wide end of the lake. Even the path leading to it was angled as to be hidden. Discovering it was a wondrous thrill for 7 years old me!

My grandfather had delightful plans for that pond. We hopped into his blue Desoto and rode across the rickety old bridge to Palm City. It’s hard to believe now, but back then that was the boonies!

We stopped at a farmer’s place, trampled thru mud until we came to a pen. My grandfather purchased 7 little, white, baby ducklings. The secret pond became their home. We purchased a trough & mash at the Stuart Feed Store. We mixed the mash with water and watched as feeding time became an event. They eagerly gobbled up the mash and quickly grew to full size.

I watched like a proud parent the first time they departed the little pond and swam out into the wide part of the lake quaking merrily all the way. Never, was there any contact between them and the wild ducks, not even a slight acknowledgement of each other.

It was easy for me to tell all the white ducks apart. I gave them names after Disney cartoon characters. They were: Daisy, Daffy, Huey, Duey, Louie, & the Professor. One was significantly larger than the others, (almost the size of a goose) as if he had been born with acromegaly, a condition which causes gigantism due to excess growth hormone. This one, I named Donald. 

Most of the ducks fled whenever I tried to touch them, except for Daisy & Donald. Daisy, the perfect lady duck always politely allowed me to pet her. Big Donald, would waddle right up to me for his petting and attention. For this reason, he was my favorite!

One sad morning, we found Huey’s body floating among the cattails. Shortly after the Professor washed up on shore, soon Louie followed. I took Daisy’s death particularly hard. Duey was next. We were disturbed and at a complete loss trying to figure out what was killing our ducks! We thought it might be some sort of disease.

One hot, sunny afternoon the mystery was solved. “It’s that big duck!” my grandfather hollered after Louie’s demise. “I just saw him do it! He jumps on their backs and pecks their heads down in the water until they drown.”

My father decided the big duck’s time was up, but not before Donald offed Daffy. Despite my protests and pleading, my dad loaded his rifle.

“There is no reason to kill him!” I argued. “He’s the only one left, now. He never goes near the wild ducks! They’ll be safe!”

“No, but he’s liable to come after me, next!” Dad replied.

With tears streaming down my face, I followed my father outside, still pleading with him to reconsider.

 

Donald was standing atop a planter. The first shot struck him in the neck and he toppled to the ground. I screamed at the top of my lungs! Dad finished him off with a shot to the head as I wailed loudly. 

My grandfather picked up the lifeless body and carried it out to the shed by the utility house. I followed. There, my mother & brother were waiting.

 

With one swift blow, Mom chopped off the limp head and tossed it to the ground. Busily, the two began plucking feathers. Still loudly sobbing, I retrieved 2 of Donald’s long, beautiful, white tail feathers from the ground to remember him by.

 

Next, I watched as they cut him open and removed his intestines. I was horrified by the process! My brother, who was in college, threw a handful of feces at my feet. “ Even dead, Donald’s still pooping,” he joked. I was NOT amused!

For several days, I saw Donald’s body every time I opened our freezer. It made me sick inside.

His 2 long, beautiful, white feathers only made me sadder. I gave them to my second grade teacher. Mrs. Lowry graciously accepted them. “I’ll wear these proudly in my hat when I go to church Sunday,” she declared.

Donald was served as the main course for Easter dinner. My family smacked their lips in relish as they gobbled him down. I refused to take one bite! And no one tried to force me. I wouldn’t even put his gravy on my mashed potatoes!

I don’t eat pets, period!