June 6, 2012, 8:54 PM. We let the girls sleep out in the pen for the very first time tonight. It’s getting dark now. I can’t see them from the house anymore. Pamela wanted to sleep outside, too, but I nixed that. They have to learn how to do this on their own. OK, everybody, say a prayer. We already have….
Sleep tight, don’t let anything bite!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
One shiny suburban afternoon, a giant tractor trailer huffs and squeals down our cul-de-sac heading to those crazy people at the top of the street. Oh right, that’s us! The family who got five ducks mail-order because they wanted their fertilizer local, really local. Well, it looks like their coop finally arrived. That’s an awful big vehicle. Boy, how big is that thang?
Big enough, I think. I hope. I pray. Those ducks have got to get out of the garage now. (Yesterday!) I’m a writer not a farmer, Jim. My back can’t take this shovel duty no more. Pamela, Pamela, I shout to my daughter when I pick her up at school. The coop is here, the coop is here! “It’s a Yolk,” she corrects me. The Egg Yolk, to be even more precise. What the ducks is that?
Ta daaa!
First week of April, 2012. Two weeks until D-Day. Almost didn’t read the latest issue of Backyard Poultry because I didn’t see anything about ducks on the cover. Pressed for time, even pre-duckling, I had a stack of unread magazines but for some reason flipped through this one anyway. Hey, what’s that? A new coop design? I ran to the computer and looked up the website. Hmm, verrrrry interesting. Made for chickens but just get a look at that run. With optional add-on, you get ten feet total plus the coop. Custom-fit canvas awning, marine-quality parts, easy to clean polymer, welded wire cage, made in the US of A? Sold!
But wait. Before I plunk down the digital plastic, shouldn’t I make sure about a few duck-related things? Having done tons of research, I could tell at a glance that this coop/pen probably did line up best with my dream coop’s features. Still, it was made for chickens. And, at this point, I had no actual experience with ducks so it was one big fat guess. Plus, with the upgrades and the shipping, we’re talking a lot of money, especially if the birds refused to use the coop. The price, $1852.00, is probably mid-range in its category—reasonable but not exactly chicken feed. (!)
I called the super-helpful Yolk folks and we mulled over this whole duck vs. chicken usage quandary, discussed ideas for hardening the perimeter against raccoon incursions, how to handle egg-laying, feeding and watering differences, etc. In the end, I rolled the dice. I liked the overall design of the Yolk; after all, I’d have to look at this thing every time I glanced up from the kitchen sink. But I also appreciated the heavy-duty, low-key wonkiness of a synthetic coop (bug resistant + hygienic = easier). I took a deep breath and plugged in the Amex number.
I guess if the ducks won’t go up the ramp, we can always try chickens next year.
Pamela and the coop part of the Egg Yolk system.
Pamela demonstrates one of the built-in ventilation features of the coop.
Will they or won’t they go up that ramp? Only time (and bad weather) will tell!
Raccoon-eye view (yikes!) from outside the run.
From inside. Note the long grass (get eating, girls!) and also the way the coop fits tightly to the pen run.
For now, the ducks use the coop as the world’s most expensive umbrella. Coming soon–actually opening it up and letting them try it out.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
From fluff ball to feathered out in just 8 weeks. Not that I’m counting….well, maybe just a little.
Handsome Peep, boy or girl.
Bath time!
Peep’s only use for the new coop–shade!
Home on the free-range.
Gladys grooming herself…without falling over! We’ve come a very long way with the little Welsh Harlequin.
Peep is a camera hog, obviously.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
I really hate to say this but I’m beginning to think my ducks, well , a couple of them, at any rate, are smarter than my cats. (Sssssh, don’t tell them I said that! Mrrrrowwww! Too late.) The reason for this re-assessment of acuity? Once the ducks realized the way to get out of the garage and into the world of fresh grass and bugs involved getting into the cat carrier, they just up and did it. Walked themselves into the carrier. Just like that. Well, almost just like that. Yes, it took a few times for them to learn and no, they don’t do it each and every time. But they do it often enough that I am reassessing species comparative IQs.*
Now don’t send me emails about your cat that uses a toilet. I know cats, have had cats forever and recognize they could very well walk themselves into a carrier if they darn well felt like it. But, as we know, by the time you wait for them to feel like it, they will be old and gray–or you will. And the vet or the kennel or the plane waits for no cat. Sometimes you just need a duck to get somewhere. And my ducks will sit there, like, er, sitting ducks and just cooperate. That can be kinda nice, actually.
All this meandering to say I had a slim but real hope that my girls might be willing to waddle up a ramp and get inside a coop, even one meant for chickens. When I first signed up for Mission Impossible: Duck House, I wasn’t totally sure. What I really wanted from those pre-built models was not so much coop as pen. Remember the coop is basically a fancy chicken condo for sleeping, sheltering and egg-laying, kibble and water on the side. Since a duck prefers to sleep on the ground, needs far less shelter from the elements, probably won’t lay an egg in a nest box and can forage and chow down outside if necessary, the coop becomes a fancy poop container with all its attendant muck-out duties. In fact, we have seen duck owners make do without a coop (mercy!) and the ducks appear to be (webbed)footloose and fancy-free.
With our ever-present Raccoon Issues, though, I just can’t go coop-less. Or, at least, not pen-less. It’s the pen that I really was after; the coop came with it whether I wanted it or needed it. In fact, I had already made calls to a variety of coop-sellers asking if they had runs they could sell separately but the ones I spoke to said “nope.” That is, they had them but they were for daytime use only, were not predator-proof and most were designed to attach directly to the coop (in other words, they opened wide on one end—not very raccoon-resistant.)
And they were too small. The biggest ones were tall rather than long which didn’t buy me the requisite floor space for five ducks. Plus, they were often pretty pricey. They ranged, not free, from about $500 to several thousand (but some had free shipping!) I even went so far as to try and design my own coop for a carpenter to custom-build. When you have to consider building permits while discussing where your five dollar ducks are sleeping, something is seriously out of whack. I took a deep breath and went back to browsing.
One of the more intriguing chicken-ready designs I encountered came not through endless web searching but through assisted serendipity. Having been referred by two different people in two different parts of the county I discovered our very own Westchester Duck Mavens, the Zanders of Running Duck Farm. Peter Zander and his daughter, Clara—a young woman with duckspertise beyond her years!—very kindly walked me through some of the ins and outs of waterfowl husbandry. Peter also designed and sells what has to be the wonkiest coop ever. The top of the line model Front Yard Coop is solar-powered, self-propelled, secure and stylish. You can even choose your own Benjamin Moore color for the siding. (Did I mention this is in Martha Stewart country?!) It features an optional built-in electric fence which many experienced duck raisers emphasize is the best way to truly secure your animals from predators. As much as I strongly considered owning the Al Gore version of a henhouse (I said wonky, right?), we agreed in the end that it was too small for my specific situation. Sigh.
At this point, we have reached early April, about two weeks before the arrival of the long-awaited soon-to-be ducks. Lest you think I am cutting this a tad close, please realize we wouldn’t be putting our girls in the yard right away. In fact, they couldn’t sleep out until they were fully feathered and the weather clear of all chance of frost (mid-May.) But I had a self-imposed deadline. We were going away for spring break and I wanted to get this all sorted beforehand so I could actually enjoy my vacation.
On the day I finally came across the model I eventually bought, my mom, all excited, called to tell me about a $99 Amish coop special available in her neck of the woods. Tempting, but by then, I was already smitten with this other option. Not to draw this out too much more but in Part III, I will introduce you to the chicken pen/coop we currently have perched in our backyard. Meanwhile, here’s a teaser photo of Coop X:
Gotta go. It’s time to get the girls out. Those worms aren’t gonna eat themselves….
*By the way, one of my cats does go into her carrier every once in a while, too. That’s right, the female. No further comment.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Shipping & handling
Reference books
Feed, various types; grit; oyster shell
Temporary pen, materials and assembly by handyman
Veterinarian visits (3, so far, one duck)
Lead-free hoses, nozzle and connector
Coop & extended pen
Plastic poultry netting, assorted, with poles
Anti-raccoon hardware cloth
Brooder kit with waterer and feeder
Second waterer (same size)
Larger waterer (2)
Largest waterer
Rubber bowls in 3 sizes (4)
Metal bowl for water overflow
Kiddie pool
Bedding material, numerous bags
Grilles for water and food bowls
Sheep foot bath
Poultry carrier
Automatic waterer
Automatic bootie dispenser with refills
Disposable gloves
Antiseptic wipes, soap, hand gel
Metal cans for feed storage (2)
Bungee cords to secure cans
Extra clips to secure pen
Grand Total: ???
The true value of five ducks quacking hello as soon as they see you: Priceless!
*Approximate cost, multiplied by five ducks. Requesting female gender, unusual breeds–a couple bucks more.
Text copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Photos by Pamela Rosenburgh
Kinder, gentler denizens of our backyard
(before we put up deer fencing)
Got up so early the other day I woke the ducks up. Not good. Actually, the cat woke me up then the other cat woke up then I got up. Apparently, a cat can be trained to get up at 5 AM even though his whole pampered life he’s gotten up at 7. Or 7:30. This whole Ben Franklin “early to bed, early to rise”* thing has gotten a leetle bitty bit out of hand. But I was already up so I fed the ducks. Then I went back to bed.
One of the reasons the ducks slept in so peacefully is that they went without their night-light for the first time. I mean, their brooder lamp. Yes, I realize they are hardly fragile ducklings anymore and checking my handy-dandy Holderread, I noted that after the first week, etc., etc. you can, etc. “lower the temperature 1 degree F (1.5 degree C) per day until no supplemental heat is needed to equal the low ambient temperature of the day” etc., etc. Too weary to work through the formula, I kind of forgot about it plus I didn’t want to pull the lamp out too early since occasionally I would see Gladys resting underneath. Now, however, with daytime temps in the mid-80’s and the first truly sultry evening, there really was no need for extra heat. Or light.
But this did beg the very pressing question: When are the ducks finally getting out of the garage?! Which leads to the next, and really most important question, in the duck-raising journey: Where will the ducks sleep? The answer that I sort of, almost, finally came up with is a journey in itself.
#####
Ducks, with their superior insulating characteristics (well-exploited by the puffy coat industry), do not have an issue with weather, per se. The main purpose of duck housing is protection not from the elements but from the neighbors. The predator neighbors, that is. Depending on which part of the country your waterfowl reside, these can range from coyote to fox to, our particular nemesis, raccoon.**
As others have noted, raccoons may look all warm and fuzzy but those cuddly exteriors hide the cunning brain of a smart, agile and relentless carnivore. (Coming Soon: Alien vs. Raccoon…in 3D!!!) We knew we had ‘em in the ‘hood so it really wasn’t a question of if but when they would come by to check out our girls. Gulp.
So about two months before the hatchlings arrived, I began waking up in the middle of the night hyperventilating about duck protection. (Yes, I’m now a charter member of the DPA, the Duck Protection Agency. Ok, the only member.) I realize that in February they weren’t even a twinkle in their daddy’s eye but in the duck-housing conundrum, it’s never too soon to start worrying, I mean, strategizing. As I’ve noted before, while there are many different options for backyard chicken folks, there are far fewer duck-specific products on the market. As the semi-poor cousin in the egg-layer community, you get used to retro-fitting, re-jiggering and otherwise adapting items meant for other farm animals.*** I guess there’s no economic upside in creating a bunch of duck-only stuff. (I exclude the relatively small market for actual duck consumption, whether for poodles or foodies. And you know which you are. If you are.)
The habits of each kind of poultry dictate the needs in the housing department. Mathematically put: duck = ground-resting = risk. Chickens, for example, like to roost at night and so apparently they’re happy in a coop, in the rafters or, if pressed, in the trees. This last alternative would not stop a raccoon (or a serpent!) but it tells you what to expect in the ever-expanding Personal Coop Market. And, boy, is it ever-expanding.
When my daughter and I first started browsing Backyard Poultry Magazine two years ago, we oohed and aahed over the cute little A-frame models, marveled at the Chicken Tractors (I’ll explain this important concept later) and fantasized over which one would work best in our theoretical backyard with our theoretical poultry. When after much research and some stubbornness we lit on the idea of getting ducks instead of chickens, it gradually dawned on me that “D” poultry would not easily shoehorn into existing “C” poultry coop design. For one, they wouldn’t fit. Ducks need more floor space—for eating, resting, splashing, spilling, hanging out, playing cards, whatever. According to the Cornell website, each adult bird needs about three square feet if penned. For our girls, that meant about 15 SF. Most of the coops, even all the nifty new models, fell far short of that.
In addition, most coop set-ups are designed for birds that can be coaxed up a ramp each night where they fly to their roosting bars and sleep safely behind locked doors, all cozy-wozy. Ducks basically plop down in a pile of other ducks, tuck their heads under their wings and that’s the deal. If they happen to plop down in an exposed area, well, Nature could take her course. (Raccoon: “Ah, I see we’re having Duck tonight.” Gulp, gulp.)
Honey, do we still need that back bedroom for house guests?
*But, really, folks. Was this his typical schedule in Paris??? I say this as a loyal Philadelphia native, mind you.
**Presumably, larger predators like cougar or bear could appear but the day they move in is the day I move out.
***Among others, we use a sheep foot bath as a small swimming pool. Who knew sheep got pedicures?!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Blogger’s Note: This is a first-person “interview” with Gladys, the Welsh Harlequin, as quacked to Pamela Rosenburgh, age 10 ½. Edited by Mama.
I get up in the morning, early. There’s a duck next to me. And one just pooped. I realize I just laid in it.
I hear [Mama] coming to the garage. I run as fast I can to the food. I get a drink of water so it doesn’t get stuck in my throat.
After breakfast, a group of ducks and I play tag. I am “it”. I chase them all and I manage to get Peep. Peep runs after both the Cayugas who peep and quack loudly. They “duck” behind me. [giggle]
Me and the Cayugas run behind Puff…she’s the biggest and there’s more cover. Puff gets tagged and heads for us. I hear the door open, we turn around and there’s Pamela. I realize that we have played tag for so long it’s time for Pamela to come check on us.
She says, “hi, duckies!” She reaches to pet me and it feels so soothing. Then I get up because I want a drink of water. I’m thirsty after playing tag!
After Pamela leaves, we all get together and resume our game. We play all the way until it’s time to go outside. Pamela steps into the pen with the cage. I’m her next victim since I’m the closest. Maybe I’m exaggerating by saying “victim”. I want to go outside so I can swim.
I get pushed [gently] into the cage along with Puff. [Pamela, not Puff!] locks the door and carries us out and sets us onto the ground. I hear a shrill peep and quack. Fanny and Peep go into the next cage. Pamela takes our cage and we head out.
I hear the shrill peep of Bonnie crying for her sister. I squirm in the cage as Puff lands on me. I let out a very high, shrill peep. Puff gets off me.
We finally come to a landing inside the pen and get let out into the sweet grass. Pamela goes away to retrieve Bonnie. We know she’s coming close when we hear her peeping, calling to her companions [us!]. She gets set down and all of us surround her and shower her with love. She says it was super-scary without you guys. Then Pamela and her mom fill up the tub and we all play water tag.
This is how it works:
You go into the water and one person is “it”. The “it” goes after the other ducks and when you get touched, you’re frozen. The only way you can get free is if the other ducks push you onto land. The goal for the tagger is to get everyone frozen.
We do this until it’s time to go back to the indoor pen. Then we yawn and beg for food. Pamela feeds us. And then everyone else falls asleep.
I close my eyes and listen to the crickets chirping and the soft breeze. I cuddle next to me companions. Their warmth helps me fall asleep.
THE END
Text & photos copyright 2012, Pamela Rosenburgh
Leaving the scene of the crime. Or entering.
Photo by Pamela Rosenburgh
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
I had already bailed on my in-laws earlier in the week when I realized I couldn’t get enough duck-sitter coverage to let me leave town for one night. As if that weren’t guilt-trippy enough, I also made a girlfriend date to see the latest Tim Burton campalooza, a movie art-directed within an inch of its life but emotionally anchored by those big dark Depp eyes. But enough of Johnny…*sigh*. The fact is even this shortish excursion would entail leaving my ducks outside in their covered pen for more than an hour or two. Since they all looked pretty Grown-Up Duck now, I figured it was time to get me used to the idea of them going out. (I mean them used to staying outside without me.) After all, I would definitely need to leave them with a sitter at some near date so I also needed to get me, them, us—comfortable with the notion.
My friend and I grabbed sushi first, found a parking spot, waited through commercials, then more commercials, then some trailers and then, finally, just as my mind wanders back to the ducks, the feature film unspools. I can’t get into it. My mind skitters across such questions as what if they knocked over the water bowl? And the back-up water bowl? What if Gladys fell in the water bowl? And couldn’t get up? What if it got incredibly hot and they knocked over both water bowls and a giant wind came out of nowhere and tore the shade umbrella off the pen and then they were exposed and thirsty and….
Opening shots of the film: Ocean. Lots and lots of ocean. All that water and not a drop to drink. Panic sets in. I wonder if I can possibly sneak out without my friend noticing, race home, give the ducks a third water bowl and make it back before the end credits. Thankfully, I manage to suppress this lunacy and attempt to immerse myself in the compelling drama and exciting narrative that surely must describe “Dark Shadows”.
“Hey, that wasn’t so bad after all!” I enthuse as I get us out of the theatre as quickly as possible, trying to act cool about my duck anxiety disorder. As we exit the massive complex, I am startled to discover that not only is it not super-hot out, the pavement is wet, the sky all dotted with painterly clouds. Divine intervention?! Not only did the ducks obviously not run out of water, they got to experience their first (but hardly their last) rain shower. I ran my friend home and then skedaddled back to check on my babies. They were fine. (Of course! I can hear my husband say.) I took a moment to greet the cats then, just as I prepared to get the girls into the garage, it started up again. This time, with thunder. Oops…back inside.
Checked the weather on-line to see if I could get a bead on how long the T & L might last. Front page—Severe Thunderstorm In Progress. Hmm, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Just then, of course, the rain started to come down harder. Didn’t have time for the semi-elaborate process of coaxing the ducks into the carriers, which would involve at least two separate trips, but I wanted to do one thing. I hustled outside and, as I heard the rumbles in the distance*, I threw a plastic drop cloth over 1/3 of the pen so the ducks would at least have more shelter if they wanted it. I retreated inside to wait out the deluge but kept checking through the dining room window and opening the door once in a while to give them an encouraging shout-out. They quacked back. Sometimes it looked like Puff was quacking a lot. Then I realized she was opening her mouth to try to catch raindrops. Good luck with that one, Puff!
I monitored the flashes and claps…the website said it should end around 6, another 45 minutes. That seemed too long, at least, for me! Listened to the thunder…how many minutes apart, how many miles away? I’d been in L.A. too long, couldn’t remember those skills from my Girl Scout days. The rain pounded, the thunder rattled the metal roof outside my office. I kept going back and forth watching the girls–for what, I have no idea. They’re ducks, jeez Louise. I can’t even swim.** Which one of us is gonna need to be rescued???
They’d been using their drinking bowl for wading but the strength of the downpour soon nixed that. Thank goodness. Even I remembered the rule: First crack of thunder, everybody outta the pool! For some reason, though, they weren’t using the plastic sheeting for shelter. Buff and Gladys crouched under the 2 x 4 supports like shoppers caught without umbrellas on an open sidewalk. They were everywhere in the pen except the shelter!
As the rain slowed down, I grabbed a hat and attempted to leave the house but a flash of lightning quickly put paid to that. Waited another fifteen minutes then tried again since now the sky featured one of those biblical God lights, rays pouring forth from a great gray cloud. (No, Charlton Heston did not make an appearance.) But as I headed to the gate once more, two cat carriers (and their metal cage doors) swinging along, a crack of Hollywood-worthy thunder sent me scurrying into the garage. Okey dokey. I think I’ll just wait a bitty bit longer…. Another ten minutes, and this time as I tiptoed through the puddles, there came the real sun, the last drops and, ridiculously, the ducks were finally under the makeshift tarp.
Well, better late than never.
*CAUTION: This is Humor Writing. Do Not Attempt to Go Outside in a Thunderstorm at Your Own Home.
**Clearly, I did not earn any merit badges for water sports.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
In our distraction over Gladys and her travails, we have mostly overlooked her “sister” Welsh Harlequin, Peep, who is starting to feather out in a beautiful pattern of browns and golds. Intriguingly, she is also developing a darker head, which makes her look handsome and grown-up and also, well, a little boyish. (Gulp!) I try not to dwell on the complications of inadvertently getting Donald instead of Daisy and head to my trusty laptop for some answers.
Well, I tried.
From what I could glean from a blizzard of Welshie images, not only are there two distinct kinds (Gold and Silver, called “phases” for some reason) apparently they change color dramatically over the first year and their final pattern can be quite different still. In other words, there can be some, ah, ambiguity about gender for a while.* Except for this: Only females quack.** (Why does this suddenly sound like an old Alice Cooper song?!)
Oh, ok, quacking. That makes it easy, right? Get your ducks to start quacking and figure out which of them are doing it and done deal. The only questions are can I tell which one is doing the quacking, what exactly is quacking and when they’re actually quacking, why am I not in the room? Let’s take these in order.
Identifying the quackers:
Gladys doesn’t quack yet. Puff is the strong silent leader who delegates all her quacking. The precocious Cayugas definitely quack (although each has a slightly different vocal style—go figure.) Peep indeed does make a sound that sounds more and more like a quack but stops short of Disneyesque.
Identifying the quacking:
There are quacks (QUACK!!!) and then there are quacks (“quack”). There are peep quacks, raspy quacks, truncated quacks, quacks that start high and end low, quacks that say we knocked over the water bowl, quacks that say one of us jumped the fence again, quacks when we’re out of crumble, quacks when we hear you in the kitchen sneaking around trying not to let us know you’re up already, doctor quacks, snack quackers…uh, no, not those last two.
Getting them to quack on command:
This is like getting your cat to “talk” on video—good luck! Since my girls(?) mostly quack to get me to do something, once I am in the room doing whatever they’ve commanded, they stop quacking. So my neighbors get to hear me say (a lot), “which one of you just quacked?” Or “come on, quack for me!” Or “can I get a quack quack?” Total silence. (And some of my neighbors no longer look me in the eye.)
So the takeaway from my web research is this—females make a louder more distinctive quack than males. But since this is a definition based on a comparison, how can you tell which is louder without a male around?!
Guess we’ll just have to wait and catch them laying eggs.
Gladys (on left) and Peep. Note the latter’s head coloration and reddish breast, another possible marker of maleness. Maybe.
*I suppose one could tip them over and take a look but that takes all the fun out of it.
**Evidently this is true of all ducks descended from the Mallard.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
This Eastern cottontail has it made in the shade.
Only the three-leaf kind so far….
Out-of-control mint.
Strawberries gone wild.
Plenty of oregano for a bunny pizza party.
Decapitated dandelion.
Bald spot.
Miscellaneous weed. Reminds me of my Philly childhood.
A miscellaneous weed party. Or as I call them, uninvited lawn guests.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
“Yeah, the grass loves this weather,” the mother of one of my daughter’s classmates commented, sending a thrill of fear down my spine. In truth, I had suspected as much but this was the first time someone had actually said it out loud. Maybe it was the fact that the front of our house looked like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, pre-Prince. Where’s my royal gardening service, huh? Oh, that’s right, Mirror. You’re looking at her.
Before I moved to suburbia, I didn’t know from crabgrass. You see other people’s lawns, you watch the weed-killer ads on TV, you might even step on one in your bare feet from time to time, but unless you actually mow your own lawn, you may not really know your own lawn. It’s true that many people in America do indeed have this deeper understanding of that green thing that surrounds our abodes. My parents, for example, mowed our lawn while I was growing up; my mom and stepdad now use a tractor to wrangle the acres; but in L.A. we didn’t know anyone who cut their own grass. Even in a place where the average home sits on a postage stamp, the use of gardening services is the norm. Or, if you don’t own a home, you might live as I often did, in a multi-unit rental surrounded by concrete and asphalt. If there’s any actual greenery, the landlord handles it.
So when we moved back East and into a leased SFR, I went a little back-to-nature. Call it “pent-up demand” after years of insufficient outdoor time. I began to collect catalogs and glossy reference books on various aspects of Home and Garden, especially Garden. As this dovetailed with a trendy increase in stories about sustainability and DIY, I had a plethora of planning tools with which to play around. In other words, I had just enough information to be dangerous. Or expensive. (Or both, as my husband would probably say.)
I bought a few hand tools and got a little cocky because while I took care of most of the ornamentals (the fun part), the landlord still paid for a weekly lawn service (the boring part). This particular lawn was more dandelion than grass and with weekly trimmings, it seemed like a manageable creature, even tame. It’s true the yard was about half the size of our present home’s and mostly flat but I didn’t think much about it thanks to the rule in paragraph two above. (If you don’t actually mow…)
Fast forward to last year. Before we even moved to the new house, I bought my very own fancy shmancy reel mower. Let me rewind a bit to confess that I had been collecting info on reel mowers ever since I saw an article in Mother Earth News. (A push mower is all I’ve ever known and, as I’ve mentioned before, I don’t particularly trust myself around power tools.) Since it seemed like I saw them everywhere–Lehmans, Vermont Country Store, even Home Depot–I figured I was in for some real retro fun. Depends on your definition of fun, I guess….
Here’s what I didn’t factor in:
1) We have a lot of grass.
2) We have a fairly long hill in the back.
3) If you take care of the grass, it keeps growing.
4) It’s not a good idea to mow when the grass is wet.
5) It rains a lot in New York.
6) We have a lot of grass.
At first, I justified the mowing as an alternative to joining a gym. And it’s even better than a gym because you get outside, no noise, no sweaty treadmills, no looking for a parking spot. Need to burn off that extra slice of pizza? Just mow & go! I told some of my fellow parents at school, the ones who were into growing veggies or buying organic, and they were fairly amused about my new toy. (Most FAQ: Why?) Apparently, very few people in my town do their own lawns. No one uses a push mower. The guy who did the lawn at our rental and who still does big stuff here was astonished. When he saw what I used to execute the (admittedly shaggy) cutting job, he laughed and said if I could mow with that, he’d hire me.
As it turns out, one of the key elements in the art of lawn maintenance is height: If you want a healthy lawn, you don’t want to cut it too short. Closely cut lawns may look neat but apparently that can stress the grass. (The robins seem to like it, though, because they can see the worms better!) Naive me, I decided brashly that I wouldn’t cut it shorter than 3 1/2″ to optimize its shot at good health. I also planned to leave the trimmings right where they fell, as added nutrients with no further clean-up necessary. All righty…
When I first rolled out the newly assembled Fiskars * we had painters at the house and I got a little stage fright. I had read the instructions (I’m a girl, I do that) but it had been, sad to say, at least 35 years since I’d been up close and personal with one of these things. How do you corner? Is it better to go up and back on hills? What pattern do you use? Boy, it’s hot out. Boy, I’m thirsty. Hey, is that the phone ringing? I think I need to get back into the A/C and find out.
In the end, I did get the hang of it but the painters laughed when they first saw my 4” “light trim”—hey, Lori, when are you going to mow the lawn? I think I compromised with 3” for most of the summer and 2 1/2” on certain unruly strips. Ultimately, I discovered there’s a threshold beyond which my muscles can’t go anyway. As you lower the blade from 4” to 1”, it gets harder to push through the grass. On hills, forget it. So for me it’s all about getting a balance between frequency and grass length. In between downpours, of course.
This year, though, I’ve been in shock. I think I only mowed 4 or 5 times last year. Why does is it feel like I’m mowing 4 or 5 times a week? That mom I mentioned? She confirmed my worst fears. Grass grows fast in a mild spring, slows down in the dog days of summer. We moved in last July. I HAD NO IDEA!
Meanwhile, I was checking weather.com which in my new Farmer Lori guise I do quite often. A certain link caught my eye: a calorie-burn calculator based on activity. Clicking through, I found “Lawn Mowing” (it didn’t differentiate between push and power mowers). Curious to discover the real value of my new exercise regimen, I plugged in my approximate weight and usual minutes of mowing, bingo! Almost 200 calories. Hey!
I should have stopped at that point but that’s not the way I’m made. I scrolled up and saw “Golfing” as another of the categories and recklessly plugged in my husband’s usual weight and same number of minutes. What?! It was almost the same amount of calories!!! How could that be? Muscling a mower and hitting a tiny ball on manicured someone-else-mowed grass burns the same calories?** There’s no way I am ever going to live that one down.
Please don’t tell my husband.
*I mentioned in an earlier post that I’ve had issues with the bolts (the ones that attach the handle to the unit.) Noticed in the Home Depot reviews that others have experienced similar problems.
**Of course, the underlying mathematics of this includes the variable that he weighs more than I do and therefore the comparison is apples and oranges. (Or corn chips and crackers, as the case may be.)
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
“You know, you’re not really a farmer,” my husband pointed out as I groaned again at the first signs of rosy-fingered dawn.
“Yeah, I just play one on the Internet,” I quipped. Admittedly, it took a moment to get the quip together. I was that sluggish.
It was 5:20 AM, twenty minutes past my wake-up call sponsored today, I think, by a Carolina wren. By the time I hauled myself down the stairs, I could already hear both Welsh Harlequins whistle-peeping in ducky duet. What was it this time: bird escape, water spillage or simply out of crumble? Turns out, they were just happy to see me.
“Girls, girls, girls!” I admonished. “It’s coming, it’s coming!”
As they milled around the breakfast bowl, I observed the results of another night of almost preternatural growth. They were clearly leaving ducklinghood behind and Andrew was right. They weren’t so cute anymore. Weeks Four and Five could be called the Ugly Duckling Phase, although, unlike the storybook version, none of these gals were turning into swans. (I think.) They sort of resembled ungainly teenagers, with attendant skin and hair issues, except the Cayugas who looked as glamorous as ever in basic black. Gladys, still a few steps behind the others developmentally, retained a sweet hint of hatchling. But Puff has gone from pretty lemon yellow to yellow with bits of a Band-Aidish tan. Peep was the most mottled, with darker feathers rippling beneath her fluffy topcoat in rather unsightly combination.*
Looks aside, they continued to surprise and amuse. As others have noted, ducks do have personality. Here’s what I see in our girls:
Puff (Orpington Buff): Leadership qualities, maternal instincts (often lets Gladys huddle with her), sentry (stands tall over the others), calm, careful (doesn’t jump in first, checks things out)
Note the beginnings of the tan color on what I think are her thigh coverts.
Peep (Welsh Harlequin): Seems large for her class; more vocal now with that distinctive WH cry; avoids humans like the Cayugas; “helps” her fellow WH but not as much as Puff does; fairly assertive but again, not as much as the Cayugas.
You can see the mottling in this fourth week pic.
Photo by Pamela Rosenburgh.
Fannie and Bonnie (Cayugas): Both are daring, intrepid and skittish around humans (even me, who feeds them!); one of them now gives an unholy squeal whenever I pick her up for transport between brooding pen and yard; they were the first to jump the wall and escape (temporarily); they were first into the bathing water; they are curious and feckless and quite beautiful.
Fannie on the left, Bonnie on the right. Or the opposite.
Gladys (Welsh Harlequin): Thanks, perhaps, to her many trips to the vet and the concurrent handlings by multiple humans, dear Gladys is easy to pick up and hold. She tends to seek out Buff for cuddling but is happy to lean against any of her peers if need be. She’s never first at the food or water but she elbows in and finds her space.
In the early days of her adolescence, still fluffy.
Photo by Pamela Rosenburgh.
The only other thing I notice after we pass the first month mark is that Peep’s head seems to be a bit darker than the rest of her body. In other words, she is beginning to look a little Mallard-like. Gladys, being at least a week behind her in growth, doesn’t have this particular coloration but it’s hard to know yet whether they’re diverging or converging. Peep’s brown head is actually very attractive and as more scalloped patterning emerges on her back, she begins to become quite a lovely young duck.
It’s about a week later when I’m checking out duck videos on the Internet (and you thought I just browsed for the articles) that I start wondering about that dark head. All the females that I see have light-colored crowns. The males are the ones with that gorgeous iridescent mallard-like…yikes!
Is there a rooster in our hen house???!
Peep’s darker head is very evident in this photo.
*I’ve seen the photos of their breeds’ adult plumage so I know this is a passing phase.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Late April into May we had the kind of weather that makes men (and women)( and possibly ducks) sick. Cold then really cold then wet then windy and now, out of the blue again, summer. We’ve been worried about keeping the girls warm enough at night but this evening when I come into the garage thinking about getting them set for bed, they’re clearly feeling the heat. Ok, May 5th’s the night, then. Time to get wet. (Under supervision, of course.)
Gladys will have to sit this one out. I’m not sure when she’ll be steady enough to get into the water and I’m certainly not going to put her in today. Puff, the big Buff, is first up but when I place her into the little tub, she freaks and tries to get out. Then, I realize, there’s a better way. Pain in the neck as it will be to clean up the wet bedding, I place the filled bowl directly into the pen. Again, one of the Cayugas, clearly the most intrepid of the group, ventures closer. Fannie-or-Bonnie starts by drinking the water then in a blur…plop! Very quickly, each of them takes their turn. Except for Gladys. She just watches, patiently.
The next morning, my daughter, Pamela, begs to let them try again. All right, duckies, ready for round two? We let them plosh around a bit longer this time now that they’ve got the hang of it. I remember last minute to move the brooder lamp out the way—don’t want the hot bulb to shatter if the water hits the glass! We make sure they have fresh water and food waiting in case they’re peckish post-workout. The dipped ducks get pretty wet but also pleasantly cooled off. Gladys, standing on the sidelines, looks like Carrie Bradshaw after she’d been splashed by a New York bus.
It wasn’t particularly chilly this morning but I wanted to get that heat lamp back over the bedding as soon as possible. (Drafts can be deadly! still haunting me.) I pulled out the water bowl-pool, got them sorted and waited to see how long it might take them to feel cold. I figured I would know this by how quickly they went to the lamp. If that metric is correct, they didn’t feel cold at all. They gobbled the crumble chased down with yet more water and only then did they start their grooming under the light.
As they shook off the water, the ducklings looked just like tiny Golden Retrievers– only quieter and with feathers. They each nudged their preening gland (on their backs near the tail) and poked themselves in various places. I watched Gladys attempt to do the same and wondered if she would fall over in the process. Ah ha! (This is what they call an “ah ha” moment, by the way.) With her impaired motor skills and slower development, I’d been worried about Gladys’ ability to keep her feathers in prime condition. After watching her struggle to pull off the same contortions as her peers, I wondered if she would ever be able to keep herself fully weather-resistant. On previous days, I had noticed her leaning up against the others and nudging them…sometimes at the tail end. This time–and here’s the ah ha– instead of just attempting to use her own gland, it looked like she was using whoever else’s was, er, handy. In a kind of puppyish way, she appeared to be sniffing her sister’s bottom but instead could she be borrowing oil to preen her feathers?
I mean, what else are sisters for?
Awww, mom, five more minutes!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
The purported plotters possibly hatching their scheme.
Apparently a new duck owner is not allowed to get sick. Not even sick sick but just one of those, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and need to hang out on a rainy morning, cats at feet, Italian murder mystery in hands kind of sick. Before I retired to said blissful set-up, I had filled the ducklings’ waterer and left an extra one as well. I turned on the little Canadian barn heater thingamajig to dispel the damp and removed the feeder as it was now post-breakfast. Fast forward a bit as I make my groggy way down for coffee and hear all the way through the fire door, the unmistakable whistle-peep calls of Gladys– and others besides. I hustle to the garage and yank back the door. Maybe I’m still napping because for some reason I see five little duck faces turned up at me but two of them are right at the bottom of the stairs.
This still life with excited ducks lasts a micro-second before the cacophony of distress calls relaunches. Bonnie and Fannie, the two Cayugas, stand looking at me, tails slightly quivering as they brazen out the moment. A couple of things hit me at the same time. One, it’s warm and toasty in there—you go, Canadian space heater! Two, the big waterer has been tilted sideways and the other one is bone-dry. And, three, there is a maze of duck poop scattered around the garage floor like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Where’s my coffee when I need it?
Instead of a caffeine transfusion, I leave the girls gaping and go back to the kitchen to fill up a clean waterer. The Cayugas scatter as I tiptoe through the splatters to deliver the water to the other ducklings left behind in the pool/pen. I make a half-hearted attempt to grab the runaways, either of them, as the other three happily slurp away. This attempt backfires, of course, as the escapees divide and conquer me easily—it’s a big garage, that’s a lot of poop and I have no shoes on. Ok, next, get them their own water and find those gardening clogs—pronto!
That done, I place the waterer on the floor next to the pen and wait for them to lap some hydration before I make my move. Even with the clogs, this is not easy. There are so many nooks and crannies but, luckily, they tend to want to stay together. I realize that delicacy is not going to work here. With more luck then skill, I manage to find a spot where they can’t slip under a twelve-speed or a wagon and I go for both of them at the same time. I grab one, pop, back into the pool and then before the other can really process it, I grab the other. Their less-adventurous fellows peep some equivalent of a welcome back slap and soon all are huddled around the waterer. They eye me with undisguised wariness as I come and go with the feeder—might as well clean it out really well before giving them a generous lunch portion—and they attack their meal as if they’d been trapped on a desert island. Which, to their ducky minds, they had been.
As the girls ate and drank to surfeit, I methodically wiped and disinfected the concrete floor and thought things through. If I had placed a money bet on which of the five would be most likely to make a break, it would not have been on Fannie and Bonnie. Ordinarily, these two were the most skittish, least assertive of the group. I wouldn’t have guessed Gladys, naturally—she was still a full third smaller than the others—but I had tagged Puff as the born leader of the bunch and would have expected with her superior height, more ability to scale the wall.
Maybe she just gave the orders.
What’s missing in this photo? An owner who knows how to finish a duck enclosure!
Post-script: No, I did not get photos of the jailbreak. Between my mental fuzziness and the emergency at hand, I forgot to get my camera from its re-charging station before it was all over. Oh well. As Louis Prima would say, next time!
Post-post-script: Another bust-out the next morning and I still hadn’t downloaded the data from my camera (full memory disk, as it turned out.) I did run the wall all the way around the pool this time. Don’t know how long that will keep ‘em penned up but, Gentle Readers, you will hear about it if so….
The calm before the next jailbreak.
Post-post-post script: The following day when even Gladys was able to make it over the wall, I knew it was time to get serious about duck control. That night we went to Home Depot and bought some 36” high plastic poultry netting. Here’s a photo of Gladys and her Cayuga henchduck before re-capture.
Now what?
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
With an early spring, almost non-existent winter, copious rain and the organic treatments, my lawn is out of control. When most people look out and see all that green stretched like moats around their suburban castles, they smile and sigh in nature-enhanced bliss. When I see my lawn, I think, *#%&! Time to mow again. Didn’t I just do that three days ago? What’s with this weather anyway? Can’t we get a nice drought going or something?
Lawn: Before re-purposing.
Lawn: More fun, less mowing!
As my readers know, part of my goal when we bought this house last year was to convert as much of the existing landscape to eco-smarter strategies. Well, let’s say it’s a work-in-progress. What with all the other renovations we wanted and/or needed to do, it’s been too expensive and time-consuming to create the sustainable Nirvana of which I’ve been dreaming. But baby step by baby step, we’re making progress. Here’s what we’ve accomplished so far:
Platform planters on deck with vegetables and herbs
Low planters on grass with potatoes in sacks and tomatoes (coming soon…)
In-ground raised beds–future Three Sisters plantings. Note, they *will* eventually be in the ground. I have to deal with the dratted lawn inside the beds first!
Moved rhododendrons, rose bushes and miscellaneous ornamentals and planted five dwarf and semi-dwarf fruit trees. This is the first sign of life from the Beurre d’Anjou pear.
Added new red maple in the backyard for autumn color (and just because.)
Also:
Potted olive and fig trees for outdoor summer and indoor winter living (Not sure how well they will do so call it an experiment.)
More to come this year:
Remove more lawn and replace with sunflower and wildflower beds
Replace scanty lawn near pine trees and create a blueberry patch with stepping stones to the backyard
Meanwhile, there’s still too much lawn to mow. And now the bad grass is starting to overwhelm the good grass. “Bad” is my non-technical term for the kind that my push mower won’t cut. Hand-trimming with grass shears is a tedious and tick-possible option so I’m thinking of getting one of those Amish scythes they sell at places like Lehman’s. I’m also looking at rechargeable lithium edge trimmers if I can manage to leave the ducks long enough to drive across the county to buy one.* If only the girls would grow faster and eat more grass. Alas, they really aren’t designed for that kind of lawn removal service.
Hey, what about a goat?!
*Yesterday I finally just went to Home Depot and bought one. If you heard someone shouting “Uncle!” yesterday around 9:30 AM EDT, that was me.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Standing in line, I notice that the woman in front of me has a bag of “duck chews” and, fuzzy-headed me, I think, how interesting, I didn’t realize ducks could “chew” per se and then finally it dawns on me as I lean a bit closer and read over her shoulder, they are dog chews MADE of duck. Oh, of course.
Now the average non-duck-owning person would probably not go any further with this because, naturally, their eyes do not alight on the outline of a duck on a pet food bag and think, hmm, that might be something for my duck, what is it? So those folks would not do what I did. Which is, as jovially as possible in said situation say, hey, I was just noticing your pet food bag is not really for ducks, it’s for dogs, right? Because, you see, I have five ducks at home and it struck me kind of funny…..
The poor woman—animal lover, clearly—looks at me, looks at the bag, reads the bag, sees that the bag is full of food made of animals just like my pets and she is horrified. I try to laugh it off and say, oh, it’s okay. Really. I mean people eat ducks, right? (Not me.) I mean, we all eat chicken, right?
Awkwardly, she’s still upset and I can’t say I particularly blame her. She apologizes to me and then tells me to apologize to the ducks when I get home. And we’re both attempting to get through this moment of duck-chew-buying guilt and I start apologizing for even bringing it up and luckily, she finishes her transaction and it’s my turn.
Of course, our cars are right next to each other in the parking lot.
*Between this and the alleged duckling crumble incident, I may not be allowed back into this pet supply store much longer.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
To paraphrase Barry Manilow (and who better to paraphrase, really?): Looks like she maaaade it!
A photo overview of the life of Gladys the Welsh Harlequin, still with us today, May 17, 2012, a little more than a month after her challenging start in life.
Week 1:
In their “five duck pile-up” configuration, you can see Gladys (bottom center) with the opening in her scalp.
Week 2:
Going to the vet for the third (and last, hopefully) time. Her scalp has closed up, she gets a second antibiotic shot and the “all clear” from the vet. No more visits necessary!
Week 3:
Gladys still lags behind the others in both size and other markers of development. She’s steadier on her feet but still tends to stick close to the others.
Week 4:
As Puff, the sentry, scans the skies, Gladys cuddles up to her in the corner. The big Orpington Buff seems to play a maternal role to the littlest duckling.
Week 5:
Gladys is feathering out! She’s still small but clearly thriving. The littlest duckling who thought she could… even when we weren’t so sure.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
“They’re big,” my husband, Andrew, reported as he emerged from the garage. “Guess they stop being cute now.”
They may or may not be running out of cute but one thing they’re definitely not running out of is poop. That euphemism you hear from duck folks (“ducklings are messy”) translates to this: They poop a lot. Yes, they slop water everywhere and it certainly seems that more of it ends up on the floor than in their mouths but the proof is in the bedding. Poop, poop and more poop. At first, I saw my garage as Darwin’s Beagle now I see it’s really the Augean stables (and I’m no Hercules.) Fastidious me, I’m sprinkling on fresh pine shavings whenever I can and mucking out the wet stuff at least once a day. As my daughter, Pamela, says, “Nature is hard work!”
Look, I know they’re birds and birds poop but I’m more used to dealing with wild birds and the rain (and a good hose) take care of that. This is a whole new level of avian output. Did I mention we got these ducks for fertilizer? Not going to have any shortages, I’m guessing.
There was only one thing left to do. Move! (Them, not us.) And not very far, just out of the starter pen and into the kiddie pool.
A couple of months ago I had gone to a local toy store where I remember seeing a nice big plastic number (made in the USA!) last summer. They looked at me like I was crazy. (A pool, in March? What are you, one of these global warming types?) I explained that we were getting ducklings (oh, ducklings, well, then…) and did my usual spiel about connecting with nature, having fresh eggs, blahbedeblahblahblah. Me and the clerk managed to smoosh it into the car, I drove home and put it out of my head. Until now. Look, we had at least a month to go yet in this garage and no way they were going to last any longer in this starter space. Plus, I needed something that would keep the water from draining out from under the bedding, something meant to get wet…hey, what about a pool?!
Everybody into the pool!
And speaking of wet things. Did you know ducks needs lots of water? Yes, I knew going in they needed continuous access to water for drinking but also to keep their bills, eyes and nostrils clean, not to mention, the rest of themselves but the speed at which ducks consume and/or otherwise dispose of H20 is staggering. We kept adding waterers but the problem became, the more we added the more they spilled and the more wet bedding this created. Even adding a grille under the waterer didn’t help so I added a bowl under the grille but constantly worried that they would knock the waterer over (which they did) and expose the hole in the grille (which happened) and fall into the bowl (which also happened) but they were able to survive said situation. (They are waterfowl.) I constantly monitor and tinker with the set-up, my ingenuity (barely) keeping one day ahead of their growth, their needs and their superior birdish cunning.
From left to right:
What we started with to what we graduated to within a month in various combinations. Also, outside they have an even bigger open bowl for washing and playing.
Met a guy the other day for the first time and told him what we’ve been up to with the duck project. Apparently, he had some experience with the birds himself because first thing he says, quite seriously:
“Ducks need a lot of water.”
*Sigh*
Yes, I know.
Getting the girls outside reduces
the poop factor in the indoor pen.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
“I hope you’re sitting down for this,” said the super nice lady from www.ducksforbackyards.com. She was about to give me the price for overnight express shipping on non-medicated poultry feed of which, all of a sudden, we were running short. Weeks before the hatchlings arrived, I had scouted lower Westchester County, trying to track down organic grower feed. There were a couple of problems with this search. One, as a first-time duck raiser, I got lost in the variety of descriptions used for the possible feeds and the different age ranges they covered. (To tell you the truth, I’m still not an expert.) Two, it did not occur to me at the time (late winter) that April is high season for poultry raising and there might be a run on feed just when I needed it….
Here’s how I got in this mess, Stanley. When we ordered the ducks and their handy-dandy start-up kit (the brooder pen, lamp and stand), we also ordered the appropriate bag of feed. Said bag was 5 pounds (2.27 kg) and said ducklings were only a couple of ounces each. What I didn’t quite get despite hearing from multiple sources is THEY GROW FAST. Translation: THEY EAT A LOT OF FOOD. (Also, their food gets wet easily and for fear of mold growth, I threw a lot out. Probably too much.) Blame it on jet lag, lack of sleep, dumb-headedness, whatever the reason, I didn’t get around to thinking about that next bag of food until the middle of the second week of their life.* Having checked out our usual pet store in February and finding a variety of organic poultry foods, I guess I figured I had a fallback nearby.
Wrong.
And here’s where it got tricky. What exactly was I looking for now that they were almost two weeks old? Do I want the same thing, especially since this stuff tends to come in 50# bags??? But first, the overview on feeding ducklings.
Some duck experts recommend a starter feed for the first 2-3 weeks, others the same for first two weeks. This “starter” feed, generally in easy to eat crumble form, contains 18-20% protein. Next comes a “grower” feed which contains 16-18% protein and is given after the starter feed until about 7 weeks, after which you can introduce a “developer” feed until about 20. (Cherie Langlois, however, suggests that fast-growing ducklings from 3-8 weeks can be switched to this 15-16% protein diet to reduce the incidence of developmental problems.) At around 9 weeks, Langlois also says that the birds can be moved to a 14% protein diet if they are kept as non-laying pets. Dave Holderread has his own schedule and continues in great detail (like I’ve said, his book is my duck-raising Bible). There are also decisions like crumble vs. pellet vs. mash at various weeks plus the notion that some of the birds will be outside with access to forage as well. As I said, it’s complex.
Where it really gets complicated, though, is when the manufacturer labels don’t quite match up to these specific descriptions. Add in, you’re looking for organic feed, you want to make sure the food is free of antibiotics and you’re talking about ducks not chickens…my head was spinning.
So when I found out that our regular pet supply place no longer had all those bags of organic feed in various sizes now that I needed them (and I would have to order it if I did indeed want it), I kinda sorta panicked. I packed Pamela into the car and we headed out to Bennie’s Feed Barn, the best place I knew but a very long drive. (We called first and confirmed the presence of “organic duckling food”.) We picked up (no, actually, one of the guys there picked it up—fifty pounds of bird food!) a bag of Nature’s Best, Pullet Grower/Developer Crumbles and thanked the lady profusely. It wasn’t until I got home and read the label carefully that I began to wonder if my girls were ready for “developer” crumble. It did indeed say “certified organic” so that made me happy. But what I thought I really wanted was more starter food, preferably the same exact product I already had.
By now you’re thinking, why not just call the website you got the first bag from and re-order? Well, that would make sense, right? But silly me is thinking I would save money by getting it locally, not to mention get it faster since that bag was depleting before my eyes. Cut to: The next day I drag my house-guest to the pet supply place to see if I can’t come up with something else, ask a different person, you know the drill. There was indeed another person but they told me something rather alarming: if the tag on a poultry bag was orange, not white, it was medicated feed. Yikes! The organic feed had an orange tag! How could this be? All the guy had in stock was a bag of non-organic crumbles which he assured me would work fine for our almost two-week old ducklings. I thanked him and took home yet another 50# bag of feed. And, no, I had not gotten the other one out of the back of my car yet so now it was both weighted down and starting to smell like duck food.
My friend and I got home and I tear the labels off both bags and take them inside. I get out the magnifiers and check the fine print. The bag he sold me clearly said “layer” crumbles—a seeming non sequitur to me, if it’s layer why would it still be crumbles? Oh well. The tag was not orange, so far so good, but then I read the Really Fine Print and under Feeding Directions it says, “feed as sole ration beginning at 16 weeks.” Ok. Definitely doesn’t apply here. And was the organic feed really possibly medicated? If he was wrong about the ok to feed this to 2-week-old ducklings, could he be wrong about the ostensible color codes of the poultry feeding community? (And he sounded so sure of himself, my friend shook her head.) By now, it’s Friday night, I have maybe two days worth of the first bag left, max, and the website (in Texas) would still be open but would have to ship it to me express. Overnight. Saturday may or may not be a possibility. Did I mention I thought I was saving money?
There’s one last option before platinum level Fed-Ex**–I call the manufacturer of the organic feed. They’re in neighboring Pennsylvania and it’s really close to 5 PM but what the heck. The kind woman who listened to my bizarre and anxious question (is your organic feed medicated or not medicated and if not medicated is it suitable for 2 week old ducklings?) was, unfortunately, not the right person. That person was out at the site with the actual grain and might or might not be able to call me back in time before but she’d definitely ask. I left a message. And waited, just a little bit…then called Texas.
P.S. After paying $49.99 for one 5# bag of bird food, we went out for a while and when we got back, there was a message from the grain company—absolutely okay to feed the organic crumbles to the ducklings. No medication whatsoever—it’s organic! Have a great weekend!
I went and fed the ducks.
*In my semi-lame defense, I did have a house-guest and a dinner party that same week. And you’re thinking, what kind of wacko has a house-guest, a dinner party and a bunch of baby ducks in the garage all in the same week? That, folks, would be me.
**They ended up sending UPS Next Day Air. Have no idea if that was any cheaper. (Cheeper?) (Bada bing!)
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
What the Ducks! 