Ducky Doodle

Barbara elvy Strate

Hubby stepped inside the back door late one afternoon with a duck tucked underneath his arm.

It wasn't unusual for him to bring home maimed, orphaned and sick wildlife during his 20 years as a state game warden and our family became quite accustomed to caring for these small creatures of the forest.

I didn't say anything when I saw him with the duck. I waited for him to explain.

"This duck has a broken wing, he said. "We'll have to keep it overnight and I'll take it to the vet in the morning."

"Where are we going to keep it?" I asked, a little disgruntled at the thought of caring for a duck.

"Put it in a box and keep it warm." He advised.

"In the house?" I said in a tone two octaves higher than usual.

"Well yes, it will be easier to take care of it inside."

"It will probably quack all night." I told him which he ignored and then I asked, "What do I feed it?'

"Give it a quacker Mom." Jim, our 15 year-old said without looking up from his homework.

The fawns and bear cubs that hubby brought home were bottle fed with a formula of diluted canned milk and honey, which I kept on hand. But I didn't have on hand duck food.

"Try some of the cracked wheat that you use in your Finn bread" he suggested, "and a pan of water. Maybe some lettuce or any green vegetable you have." He handed the duck to me and left by the same way he had entered.

"Instead of being left holding the bag, I'm left holding a duck." I mumbled while looking into the ducks beady eyes. Jim looked our way wearing a grin.

Jim found a box in the garage and we lined it with pink and green paper grass that I found in the kids Easter baskets. The duck seemed to have enough instinct not to flap its wings as I set it in the box with a shallow pan of water and one of cracked wheat. It nestled into a corner of the box and uttered one grateful "quack."

Our new boarder was relatively quiet all evening with an occasional "Quack, quack" here and a "quack, quack" there.

Before I went to bed I told the duck, "if you quack all night, you'll be on the dinner table tomorrow."

The next morning hubby tucked our boarder underneath his arm to take it to the vet. Jim said, "Goodbye Ducky Doodle"

"Quack, quack," it replied.

I wonder if it was its way of saying "Thank you."

A little creek flowed through the pasture where we lived in Pattee Canyon Drive in Missoula. And then it meandered down the canyon along the roadside. Jim, then 10 years old, wanted to go fishing.

The creek was low in mid-summer and I knew he would come to little harm if he went alone, but I felt easier by going with him.

We followed the creek along the roadside for a way until we ran out of walking room. We decided to jump to the other side. It was a wide place, and I offered to hold Jim's fish pole while he jumped across the creek. Just as I was getting ready to hand Jim the pole a car pulled up behind me. "Can I see your fishing license?" the Game Warden said.

"I don't have one," I informed him.

"If you don't have a license you shouldn't be holding a pole," he replied rather tersely.

"I'm holding it for Jim while he jumped the creek," I explained.

"It's illegal to have a pole in your hand if you don't have a license. You're breaking the law and I should give you a citation," The officer said.

"You've got to be kidding," I replied, though he didn't have a kidding expression on his face.

"Wow!" I thought. This guy is having a bad day.

"Hand the pole to Jim," he said sternly and watched me do it.

The warden was giving me a bad time. The short lecture on breaking the law unnerved me.

I jumped, missed the bank on the other side of the creek and landed ankle deep in water. The officer pulled away from the roadside. Half grinning. "Bye Dad," Jim called.

"See you both at home in a little while," the warden called.