Treading Water (10 page)

“Awww, so cute,” I hear people say. And they are.

“Ducklings in the wild or born on a farm would have a mother to keep them safe and teach them what they need to know,” I explain. “But ducklings that are sold in feed stores or tractor-supply stores or sold through the mail do not have mothers to help them.”

I can see the two managers look nervous. I don't want to make them feel bad. But they need to know what happens.

I continue, “So if a farmer gets the ducklings, he or she knows what to do. But when people buy them for their children, the ducklings are in danger of drowning.”

Some people gasp. I hear someone whisper, “That can't be.” But Maggie and I continue. Maggie picks up a duck and points as I speak.

“At the base of their head, ducks have an oil gland. This gland excretes oil after the ducks have been submerged. If a duck was with its mother, she would make sure all her ducklings got out of the water after a dunking. Then the duckling would preen. They use their heads and wings to distribute the oils to all their feathers. Ducks are not waterproof until they have fully feathered out and have distributed the oils. A baby duck or duckling has fluff, not feathers. So they can become waterlogged and drown.”

Again, I hear gasps. And someone says to another, “I had no idea.”

“This is why so many baby ducks do not survive when they are given as gifts. Maggie and I did a lot of research. One of the things we found out is that many stores have a minimum number of six chicks and ducklings that a customer must buy, unless they already have a flock. This way, only farmers and families who want a backyard flock will buy the animals. So people aren't able to buy one or two as pets.”

It's Maggie's turn again. This time she doesn't seem a bit nervous.

She says, “No animal should be thought of as a toy. These are living creatures. People should let the Easter bunny bring candy and stuffed animals and let the living creatures stand a chance at survival.”

A couple little kids up front are very excited to hear the Easter bunny mentioned. They bounce up and down while sitting on their straw bales. The adults in the audience seem to agree with Maggie and me. I see many heads nodding. I hear bits of conversations.

But the store managers talk quietly to each other. I wonder what they're saying. Will they listen to us, even though we're just kids?

I
t is time for the big event, time to introduce the ducklings to the deeper water of the kiddie pool. Jules and Sunita have closed their station for a bit to see this. Zoe and a couple of the Outdoor Club kids have wandered over, too. I'd guess we have a crowd of over sixty people sitting on straw bales and standing in a big semicircle behind them.

I hope this goes okay. Maggie and I have been coached by my parents. They said it will be fine. Fun, actually. We've done our research. I just hope none of the ducks makes a run for it. I know they won't drown. That's the whole point here. I catch a glimpse of Sage in the back; he shoots me a thumbs-up. I look over at Maggie. She doesn't seem nervous in the slightest, just excited.

I identify the leader duck. It's the smallest one, a girl.

I tell the audience, “We can tell that this duck is a girl because she quacks. Only girl ducks quack. Boys whine. If you listen closely, you'll hear this one here whine today. Another way that we can tell he's a boy is because he has this extra tail feather. See this?”

Maggie points for me because she's closer to him.

“This tail feather that curls back toward his head shows that he's a boy.”

A man in the crowd yells out, “If any of you can remember the 1950s, that's how the men's hairstyle ‘ducktail' got its name.”

Some of the older folks laugh a little and talk to each other about that. I'll have to look up a picture of this hairstyle. It sounds strange.

It's time. Maggie and I have piled stones beside the kiddie pool so the ducks can climb in and out. We've placed a big flat stone in the pool just to be sure that they have somewhere to rest if they have a hard time figuring out how to get out of the pool.

We have the paint tray beside the stones and the kiddie pool. We used it this week to get the ducklings familiar with the water. The three of them can't exactly swim in it. They are too big, and it is too shallow. But at least they are excited about the paint tray. At first they were scared of it.

It's time to splash in it so the ducks notice it.

Maggie splashes. She pats her hands on the water. The ducks notice but do not approach it. She splashes again. Nothing. The ducks lie back down on the grass. This won't be much of a show if they just hang around the grass for an hour.

I give the leader duck a little pat on her behind to send her to the paint tray. She stands and quacks but doesn't move. I pat her again, and she takes a few steps. The other ducks see her move, get up, and follow.

Finally, she's close to the paint tray. Maggie stops splashing and takes her hand away. The leader duck takes a couple more steps and then . . . gets in the paint tray. A few people clap and laugh. Then the other ducks follow her in, and everybody laughs. The three ducks are so big that while they are all in the paint tray, they are all also hanging out of it. They have outgrown their little body of water.

Now I show them the deeper water behind them. I lean over and splash like Maggie did in the paint tray. The ducks turn and look. But they do not move closer to it. Maggie shrugs. I try to pat the leader duck toward this water now. She stands. But instead of walking up the rocks and into the big pool, she turns and runs the other way!

The other ducks follow her. Maggie and I follow the ducks. We can hear people laughing behind us. The ducks slow and stop a few yards away. Maggie and I slow down as well, then start to creep up on them.

“What do you suppose we should do?” Maggie asks.

“We need to get Lead Duck in that pool. The others won't get in until she does,” I say.

“So we walk them back and then what?” Maggie asks.

“I'll get in with her,” I suggest. “I'm wearing shorts, so it's no big deal.”

“You think that will work?”

“If she goes in, they'll go in. And we need to make sure she goes in.”

Now that we have a new plan, we walk the ducks back to the pool. The littlest duck, our leader, walks out in front of the other two, quacking away. When we get close to the pool, the ducks hop back into the paint tray.

I kick off my sandals, step in the pool, lean over, and snatch up Leader Duck. I hold her gently in the pool. Gentle or not, she is unhappy. She quacks loudly. The other two ducks hop out of the paint tray and run around and around the kiddie pool. Everyone is laughing. I feel my face go red. Maggie is red, too. This was probably not such a good idea to do the swimming lesson so publicly.

But then, one of the ducks decides that he needs to be close to the leader. He turns and waddles up the rocks and right into the pool! The third duck paces back and forth in front of the pool as if trying to decide what to do. Finally, she gets into the pool, too.

It's time to dunk the ducklings. It seems a little mean, but it's the only way. I'm still holding the leader duck, and she's still quacking. I check to see if Maggie is ready. She nods at me. I loosen my hold on my duck's body and quickly push her head into the water. Maggie does it with the boy duck, and before I can dunk the third she dunks herself.

Immediately, the leader duck jumps out of the pool. She doesn't even need to use the rock stairs. The other two ducks also race out of the pool, but they both take the stairs. I step out of the pool, too. The ducks begin preening. They instinctively move their heads back and forth and raise and lower their wings, using their bills to move the invisible oil in and among their feathers. The audience members are all on their feet, watching the ducks do what comes naturally. And then the ducks do what ducks do best, they get right back into the pool and swim.

Everybody claps.

I say, “These ducks were lucky. They were found, cared for, and raised until they could safely do something that ducks ought to be able to do: not drown.”

People clap again. The little kids in the front row look like they want to swim with the ducks, but fortunately their parents are making sure they do not.

“Thank you for coming today,” I say. “We're still here for another hour and a half, so stop by all of our wonderful stations. And be sure and get some cookies and grilled asparagus.”

I had to say it. It's just so weird. Zoe sticks out her tongue at me, real fast. But then she winks. We're good. Zoe and I. And Maggie and I? We're good, too.

David and Josh are careful not to come too close to the bathing ducks.

“That was great,” Josh cheers.

“Yeah, especially the part when you both had to run after the ducks,” David says, “That was my favorite part of the whole day.”

“Gee, thanks, David,” I say.

Maggie gives him a gentle push. He makes a big deal over falling on the ground and pretending to be in pain. Pure David.

“Hey, David,” Josh says. “Did you tell them about Farmer Ziemian?

“Not yet,” David says, getting up from the ground. “He's going to take the ducks. Great, huh?”

“That is great,” Maggie says. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” David says.

Wow, tomorrow. So soon. That is good news, even if it makes me a little sad. But then again, I'm always sad when any animal leaves the wildlife center.

I look around. Most people have gone back to the stations. A few people are heading for the parking lot. Dr. Mac and Dr. Gabe are talking to the two store managers. Dr. Gabe sees me looking their way. He lifts his chin slightly, and I have the feeling that we should go over to talk to them.

I lead the way.

Dr. Mac smiles and stands with her hands on her hips. She says to the managers, “These girls worked very hard on this event.”

Maggie says, “We all did.”

She looks at Josh and at David. Sunita, Jules, and Zoe have gone back to their stations, but Maggie is right. All of the Vet Volunteers worked hard.

Then Maggie adds, “We had some help today from a high school group, too.”

Dr. Mac smiles. I do, too.

“I'm sure this rascally boy helped,” the feed-store manager says, patting David on the shoulder.

Josh looks as if he might bust a gut trying to keep his laugh inside. His shoulders go up and down. David looks down. I can tell he's afraid he's going to laugh, too.

Dr. Gabe says, “Did you want to tell the kids your plan?”

The feed store manager looks at the tractor supply manager. He nods.

“Well, kids, we're going to take your advice. Next year, we will both insist on a minimum purchase of six chicks. That way, we can be sure that they're not going to be bought as disposable pets.”

The tractor-supply manager nods his agreement.

“We really learned quite a bit from you kids today,” the feed-store manager says. “Quite a bit. Oh, and no more dyed bunnies, either. I read the paperwork you sent over, young lady. You've opened my eyes.”

David looks at me. I know he'll always keep my secret about what I
almost
did.

“Next year, we should do this again,” David says. “But before Easter.”

“Let's make it happen,” the tractor-supply manager says. The Vet Volunteers look at one another. We really have made a difference today. I'm pretty sure that next year there won't be so many abandoned pets. It feels good.

We say good-bye to the store managers and help with the remaining stations. There is a lot to take down and put away for our next open house. Sage, Josh, and David stow the pop-up tents in Dad's workshop. Everybody else—including some of our friendly visitors—grabs the dozens of straw bales around and stacks them in the critter barn.

I say good-bye to my friends. Sage and I lead the ducks back to the critter barn where they will spend one last night. All the visitors are gone, and everything is back in order. I need something to eat, a shower, and bed.

After my shower, I find my family at the kitchen table. Piles of dishes sit in the sink and on the counter. They've been left for me: my punishment for poor patching and even poorer permission seeking. I'm on dish duty until July.

Plates of leftover cookies and asparagus sit next to a tray with a stack of fresh tomato sandwiches. I grab a sandwich. Jayvee has only cookies in front of him.

I wink at him. “Special day, huh?”

Jayvee smiles and takes a big bite out of his cookie. His whole body is swaying, so I can tell he's swinging his feet beneath the table. He is one happy camper. Sage shakes his head and laughs.

Mom and Dad flip through some of the prints I made. They look at the photos from when the fox family first came to stay with us, photos of the ducklings' first day at Dr. Mac's, and photos of my friends. In a second pile are the origami dinosaur photos. They are so very cool.

Mom pats the dinosaur pile. “I can't believe the effect you were able to achieve,” she says.

“I'll have the frames done this week so we can get them up in Jayvee's room,” Dad says.

Jayvee beams, and those legs keep swinging.

Until Mom says, “Jayvee, please. Table manners.”

Jayvee stops swinging but not smiling. “Thanks, Brenna,” he says. “My dinosaurs look like real paper dinosaurs.”

We all laugh. “They do look like real paper dinosaurs,” I say.

Dad turns a photo around so that I can see it. It's one of the fox kits. I used the same photo last month in my slide show for the Outdoor Club. That seems like so long ago.

Dad says, “Brenna, this is stunning. You were always good, but over this past year, you have become a truly amazing photographer. The action, the lighting, how did you learn to do all this?”

“Thanks,” I say. I feel my face going red. “I'm always reading about technique and composition. And I just go outside and try.”

“I wonder where this might take you.” Dad says softly as he flips through a couple more photos.

Sage pulls a picture of the ducklings from the stack. The ducklings are tiny, practically round balls of bright yellow fluff.

“That was when we first found them, remember?” I ask him.

“You forget how small they were, don't you?” he says.

“They grow so fast,” I say. Sage pulls out a picture from a couple weeks later. The ducklings' necks look longer, and their bodies not so compact.

Mom has gotten up from the table and returned with the family photo album. Oh no, this can make my parents sappy for hours.

“Just look at how fast they grow,” Mom says, pointing. The first few photos are of Baby Sage. He looks tiny, but you can see those same intense eyes. In the background, our cabin looks new and uncluttered. Not much furniture around, either.

Mom keeps flipping, Sage grows older, and we get to me as a baby. Okay, I was seriously cute. My brown hair is soft and curly. Mom must have had a thing for weird baby headbands. I'm wearing a different one in almost every picture. Some pictures are of me alone, some with Mom or Dad, but most are just Sage and me.

Dad says, “That doesn't seem so long ago.” He is pointing to my first day of school picture. I look determined in my red plaid jumper and blue shoes.

It seems a long time ago to me. I can't remember that picture being taken. I can't remember the dress or the shoes. I do remember the Dora the Explorer backpack I am clutching. But otherwise, kindergarten, and almost all of elementary school, is a bit of a blur. Sometimes it feels as if I've been in school forever.

Then Mom turns a page, and there is Baby Jayvee. He is sitting in his high chair covered with spaghetti. It's in his hair, all over his face, and smeared across the high chair tray. He's laughing. And swinging his feet. I look over at Jayvee. I do remember when that picture was taken. Mom turns the page, and five-year-old Jayvee is standing on the same spot I was for his first day of school. Not only do I remember that picture being taken, but it really seems as if it was only months ago.

How can this be? It doesn't feel like anything has sped by for me. And Sage pretty much seems the same. But Jayvee? Jayvee's life seems to be moving faster than ours. I look over at him. I realize I still think of him as a four- or five-year-old. He's still a kid, but he's a kid who can make origami dinosaurs. A kid who can climb trees and do multiplication. He's growing up almost as fast as a duckling. For the first time ever, I think I want the world to slow down.