365 Days of Change: An Ugly Duckling Story

(Not one of the survivor ducks - image from my collection)

365 Days of Change: An Ugly Duckling Story

DAY 9 - PERCEPTION (August 29, 2012)

There’s no question I’ll go to great lengths for something I staunchly believe in, and not worry about what anyone else thinks.  This story is not snack-sized, but it’s worth the read.  I’ve edited the original version for this blog.  

     

It the middle of a sunny spring afternoon, I drove my nephew to work, taking the faster route of Deerfoot Trail south.  I dislike the Deerfoot - not because it’s fast, or congests easily - but because scary things tend to happen to me there on a regular basis.  I’ve watched industrial drums or pieces of furniture leap off trucks (always magnetically in my lane) forcing me into sharp, race car-like moves to avoid being hit.  On one occasion, I slid into a spinning traverse across icy lanes while driving to attend a first aid course!  Deerfoot was built to be a thoroughfare, but sometimes it likes to think of itself as a pinball machine.  Ugly situations can, and do, show up. 

    

Most of the lanes heading south had suddenly slowed a bit.  I prepared myself for a situation, but saw no flashing lights indicating emergency vehicles.  "Oh my God!" screamed my nephew, slamming both hands flat up against the passenger window. "There's baby ducks on the road.  Look.  They’re walking right down the middle of that lane!"  My nephew and I are both animal lovers.  The window fogged up rapidly in front of his face. 

A mother duck had decided to guide her six ducklings down the middle of a busy highway.  Why do they do this?  It happens constantly.  My palms started to sweat; my eyes darted back and forth between the bumper with the lawsuit and increased insurance rates in front of me and the procession of fur balls weaving in and out of the assault of rubber tires, beside me.  I was approaching at a speed I could do nothing about, with just enough of a sickening window to witness the sixth duckling at the end die instantly underneath the tire of a cattle carrier.  I glued my eyes to the rear view mirror, and watched the surviving birds waddle onward as if nothing had happened. 

"Oh shi*!" my nephew cried out again, slumping back down into the seat.  "Why isn't anybody stopping?!"  "Jay," I answered with empathy, knowing fully well I couldn’t console him, "look where we are!"  

The rest of the drive was wordless and distressed, but I knew exactly what had to be done.  Those who know my tenacity well understand that once it kicks in, very little can sway it.  “When I drop you off,” I said, “I’m going back.”  He looked at me hopefully.  “No,” I demanded, “you have to get to work, I’ll call you later.”  I blasted into the parking lot in a cloud of churned-up dust, and practically tossed him out the door.

    

As my SUV skidded around the merge lane and back onto Deerfoot, I sped past vehicles, consciously counting 1-2-3-4-5 in my head as if doing so would keep the last five of them alive through sheer will alone.  And there they were!  In the same lane, all five of them still weaving, but where was the mother?  Hit?  Did she abandon them?  The witch! 

I quickly sandwiched between two mid-sized cars and immediately threw on the emergency flashers – pulling speed down bit-by-bit until the driver behind angrily darted out to my left.  Good.  Stay there.  If you’re not going to slow down and help, move along!  The ducks were now in front of me.  Travelling 50 kilometres per hour in a 100 zone with my hazard lights blinking brought up the fleeting image of being hammered to death from behind, taking the ducks out in the process.  All of my safety training told me this was insane, irrational - irresponsible to myself and other drivers.  But what about the ducks?  Focus.  Breathe.  I struck a closed fist into the horn.  The ducklings stopped and started milling around in the lane in a confused, stumbling mess - wings stretching towards the pavement and then back in again.  I crested hard onto the shoulder, stopped, pushed the gear into park and dove for the passenger side door, letting myself out on that side so I wasn’t flattened like Wiley Coyote.  I was still dangerously parallel with traffic, but not entirely out of control.  Not yet.  

    

I ran up from the grass towards the ducks, not sure what to do first, but it was clear they were afraid of me and continued running back down the road.  "No!" I yelled, "please don't do that for God Sakes, you're all going to die!"  Vehicles curved smoothly around mine, and as if the horror of watching these ducks stumble underneath thundering tires wasn’t bad enough while driving, now I was standing right in front of the same scene all over again.  I noticed the mother had taken flight, jetting frantically back and forth above my head.  Obviously, she recognized the danger, but now seemed either unwilling or helpless to do anything about it. 

"Come on!" I bellowed, waving my arms, "Look at me.  LOOK AT ME!" They kept running down the lane, so I did the only spontaneous thing I could think of doing: I crouched down into the gravel on my haunches, folded my hands tight under both armpits, started flapping elbows up and down, and quacked as bloody loud as I could above the noise of passing engines.  I became …

…a duck. 

Some of my friends may disagree, but I don’t welcome this kind of drama.  Honestly.  I’d rather be sitting on a mountain summit chomping on dried fruit and taking pictures.  But a synchronistic moment in time is exactly that.  The choice to act, and how, is always ours. 

                       

Their fuzzy heads sprung up like jack-in-the-box puppets, and as they starting running over the painted line towards me, the wind blast from a passing tire launched one of the innocents tuft-over-tea-kettle into the ditch.  Shi*!  I’ve lost one!  My ridiculous behavior at the side of the road started to grab unwanted attention.  Horns blared, forcing me to quack even louder to keep their attention.  Someone stuck their head out of a window donning an expression I’ll never forget.  My face burned hot with exertion. 

       

The wind-stunned duckling stood up in the grass and staggered into cue with its siblings - now all walking purposely towards me over rocks and grass like I was the beacon of salvation during the apocalypse.  It was working!  Their soft little bodies encircled me.  Above the noise of traffic, I heard the incessant peeping, and saw how much stress they were under; beaks frothing profusely.  One shook violently, but backed away when I tried to rescue it into a cupped hand.  

            

I waddled up towards a grassy ridge, my boots dug in firmly to keep this weird position in balance.  My quads burned, but I was afraid to stand upright in case it triggered a dangerous retreat back to the highway.  The babies were exhausted, toppling over like drunken sailors.  Their black and yellow fuzz was coated with ditch dust.  I corralled them together ahead of me, continuing to quack as their tiny, black and beady eyes kept looking up.  They honestly think I’m their mother!   I started to cry, something I couldn’t control, while the mother dive-bombed my head.

We reached the grassy landing, and paused for a breather.  It took over half an hour to get them to this point.  The mother landed on a trail down towards the river, faced us and waited.  I believe she understood things perfectly.   "Go," I said softly, gently tapping their five downy bottoms towards the trail.  "She's waiting for you."  They instinctively lined up and scuttled in her direction like mini Charlie Chaplins.  I took a breath, then sat down.  My feet had fallen into a deep sleep, and the tingling agony of returning blood flow had just started.  Like a drill sargeant, she directed them into the river, one after another.  Then she did something surprising.  She came back up the trail a few feet, stopped, and stared at me.  "You're welcome!" I  yelled.  "Just don't do it again.  You're a lousy mother!"  She turned around, stepped into the river, and rejoined her babies.  I waited until they swam out of sight.  The pain in my legs went ballistic, so I laid down on my side, straightened them out, closed my eyes and waited.

I had no plan, no idea how it was going to play out.  I only knew that it would.  A miraculous connection with these tiny, sentient beings had taken place.  To most, they were dots on a highway not worth the risk of stopping for. It was sad, but who could save them?  To me they were responsibility gathered under makeshift human wings.  Have you ever done anything so obsessively bizarre or unique out of a sense of purpose, and not worried about perceptions?  I did.  And I'm certain I will again.  

"Everyone looks retarded once you set your mind to it." - David Sedaris, humorist.

September 1, 2012:  Even ducklings understand about compassion and paying it forward.  This is a cute video of a duckling feeding some ornamental fish: Duckling Feeds Fish