Tuesday, September 13, 2011


    I'm so sad. My duck died last night. We'd been together for ten years, her name was Emily, named for Emily Bronte, and she was one of the original three.

Dear Emmy Duck:

     You liked to hide in tall grass and make nests and I had to look all over for you. I would call you, but you would just hunker down and pretend no one could see you. One day, I found you sitting in the water bucket and you couldn’t get out. Don’t know how you even got in there.

    You survived the West Nile epidemic, were the smartest of all the ducks I ever had, and taught the rest of them how to use the ramp to get in the barn and the step to climb into the pool. You never fought with your buddies, you were gentle, a pretty kaki Campbell. You didn’t talk much, had a black beak and black feet and got grey “hair” in the end. You waddled so cute and made me laugh, you were the one I loved the best, (don’t tell the other fowl.)

    I’m not sure why you died. You acted a little droopy the night before but you’d done that before. And you’d spent a fine day in the sun chasing grasshoppers.

    A long while ago, when we lived at our other house, you hurt your leg, but with TLC and hydrotherapy in the middle of winter, you recovered just fine. I’m sorry you died alone, I hope you are okay now and with your sister Charlotte and swimming in a real pool with moss and flowers and lots of bugs and cracked corn to eat.  

I miss you little brown duck.

I hope when we die, we get to see not only the people we love, but all the animals who have brightened our journey and taught us those lessons humans cannot impart.

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