I've written before about the mallard hen with the gimpy leg. I worried that she would struggle on the ice during the past winter. She may have, but she made it. I watched happily as she gamely pulled out of the water every morning and began her uneven, bobbing walk to the thrown corn. The rest of the flock considered her their equal, for all I can tell. No chasing, pecking or excluding. And she could hold her own with the drakes. If she wasn't in the mood for mating behavior, she would lower her head, open her bill and chase off any would-be suitor. Of course, her chase had that bobbity-bob thing, but the drakes turned tail, just the same.
I think she's brooding eggs right now. I have seen only the non-breeding pair in the yard for a few weeks. I know ducklings have hatched around here already. I haven't seen any yet on our pond. Last year she had eleven. Imagine brooding eleven eggs. That means oh-so-carefully sitting on them, but also gently turning them with her bill every few hours so that all eggs are evenly brooded. It means being fearless on the nest. A hen will sit absolutely motionless in the face of terror, a skunk for instance, until the very last minute.
Ducks don't have much in the way of protective mechanisms. Some birds have sharp, powerful bills or talons. Not so ducks. Some ducks have a wonderful threat behavior where they lower their head, open their bill and sway their neck and head in a sort of reptilian manner, which I'm sure they mean to be menacing. When I worked in the Wildlife Rehab Center we would get Scoters in, which are big, sturdy sea ducks. They would display this behavior when humans approached, and it looked for all the world like the duck was saying "Wanna a piece of this??" You work with what you've got, I guess. Ducks mainly have flying away, swimming and sometimes diving, depending on the duck. That does nothing for the eggs left behind.
Last year she would bring her young brood out early in the morning and in the evening. Her nest was against the bank in some very deep and thick reeds and grasses. They would silently appear, tiny golden jet-propelled fluffs darting around the hen. If you listened very closely, you could hear tiny, sibilant peeps from the ducklings. She would try to keep them in close formation in order to keep an eye on them, but you know kids. There's always one. I'll bet it was a male - who just would not wait for her. He would swim a good twenty feet out ahead of her, anxious to explore his new green world. Suddenly he would realize he was quite alone and a loud, frantic peeping would begin. The hen would speak low and soft to him as she made her way over the water. No limp in the water, of course. She swims a bit to the left, as her feet aren't equal in strength. But she gets where she needs to be. The panic calls of one youngster would cause the other ten to scooch very close to the hen. This usually ended the outing and the family would head quietly back through the duck weed and floating reeds to the nest.
Every foray into the pond was cause for great caution and concern. Mother mallard would continuously count her brood as they ranged farther afield as they grew. Sadly, her brood did shrink. Some of the threats out there are hawks, bullfrogs, herons, big fish, otters and skunks. It's probably why mallards and other ducks start with such a large clutch of eggs. She ended up with five successful grown up ducks, and that's quite an accomplishment.
So while some moms are having brunch, opening chocolates or arranging bouquets of flowers, some others are sitting in the rain on a soggy nest, water dripping off their bills, keeping wings a little spread and down so that the tiny lives under their soft bellies stay dry and warm. They wouldn't have it any other way.
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