Don't Name the Ducks

by Wendy Dudley

  "This is what it's all about out here, isn't it, Crocus?" Life and death. Prey and predator. Crocus's natural instincts ran close to the surface, her hooves ready to dig in and her legs poised to take flight at the first whiff of danger. This would eventually become my undoing, but for now, I admired her wildness. After too many years of city living, I was looking forward to my own reconnection with nature.

  I know wild animals must eat or be eaten, but that didn't stop me from thinking about the day my ducks arrived, their two heads poking between the slats of their wooden crate. Lyle gave them to me, thinking they were the perfect gift, an easy initiation into farming. I had no experience with poultry of any sort, and figured the powder blue budgie I owned as a child wasn't worth too many beginner's points. I stuttered, warning Lyle I had weasels that would slip through the pen's mesh and murder the ducks. But he was too seasoned for that lame excuse.

  "You think you're the only one with weasels?" he asked,

  somewhat stupefied by my ignorance. I immediately regretted the comment and decided to listen in silence. We unloaded the ducks and watched them explore their new home, a pen the previous owner had used to rehabilitate injured hawks. I'm sure the ducks would have quacked dead on the spot if they had known the plumage of the former tenants. Satisfied that I now knew the tail-end from the bill-end of my new charges, Lyle climbed into the rusting cab of his truck.

  "Just don't go naming them," he said. I forgot his advice as soon as he rounded the first curve in my laneway.

  Within a week, my web-footed friends were answering to Martha and Lily. Being a responsible owner, I bought a guide to ducks, but was stopped short when the author suggested Muscovies were the perfect duck for butchering. They were so ugly, he wrote, that killing them was a task without emotion. What nerve, I thought! Lily and Martha aren't destined for a dinner plate. They're pets, following me around like loyal sheepdogs and playing chase with the cats, spreading their wings and hissing at them like gargantuan geese. Like me, Winston Churchill couldn't bear the thought of dining on one of his own birds. Apparently one Christmas he was about to carve the goose when he learned it was one of his own. Refusing to slice the bird, he said, "I could not possibly eat a bird that I have known socially." Well, God bless you, Mr. Churchill!

  The tears began to flow as I climbed the muddy hill, leaving behind Lily and Martha's scant remains. In the end, the coyotes did what I could not do. I guess Lyle was right. I should never have named them, but to me there was little difference between Lassie the dog, Flicka the horse, and my pair of tame ducks. No, I was glad Lily and Martha didn't live nameless lives. They had individual personalities and they deserved individual names.

  Still justifying my attitude towards creatures meant to be savoured with fancy sauces, I peeked inside their shed, as if they might magically reappear, as if the feathered remains a half-mile away were really those of someone else's ducks. But all I saw was a lonely space where they had once slept, their heads turned and tucked under their back feathers. Their abandoned straw bed sat in the corner, a few strands of down woven into the round nest. Several pieces of lettuce floated in their water dish. I managed a weak smile, thinking about the time Martha took a frigid midnight swim and earned a night's lodging inside my house.

  "Look at you, you silly bird. You're frozen. You'll die if you stay out here," I squawked upon seeing her crisp feathers. "You don't go for a bath when it's minus thirty outside!"

  Poor Martha! Her greatest pleasure in life was taking a bath. So when the passing of summer took with it the plastic wading pool I had purchased for her daily dunk-and-dive, she began using her water dish. Upon making my final late-night check, I discovered her half-frozen body, her feathers clinking like icicles as she tried to crawl across the wooden floor. Her bill clacked as I bundled her into a blanket. Martha spent the night thawing out in my bathroom, oblivious to the swarm of cats anxiously pacing outside the door. By morning, she was all puffed up and preened, ready to strut her magnificence. I'm sure what saved her was her Rubenesque figure. Back in her shed, she gossiped the day away with Lily, telling tales about nifty indoor bathtubs and flocks of rubber duckies.

  This is how I choose to remember Lily and Martha, as two silly ducks who splashed under a big blue sky until their lives ended in the split second of a wingbeat. When the spring storms come, I like to think of them romping in a huge swimming pool in the sky, splashing waves down to earth below.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Dreams Turn into Nightmares

  The best way to stop a runaway horse is to turn it in a circle, disengaging its hindquaters. Unfortunately, I learned late the importance of training a horse to move its hind end independently of its front end.

  My mare Crocus was a wild beauty, her mane a waterfall of waves and her coat as dark as a witch's cape. She had the thick neck and small ears of a Morgan, a breed renowned for its stamina, and her legs were straight and strong. To ride her at a trot was to float. To watch her run was to see freedom.

  Freedom—that's what Crocus was all about. Freedom to gallop and graze, freedom to fight, and freedom to turn her back on a human voice. As boss mare, she lived to do as she pleased.

  When she came to us, Crocus hadn't carried a rider for five years, not since her thirty days of professional training, just enough schooling for her to learn the basics of stopping and turning on command, and of moving from a trot through a canter. She was what you'd call green-broke, a polite way of saying not a horse for the inexperienced. I know that now. I wish I'd known it then.

  I thought my years of riding dude horses would count for something. After all, there wasn't a vice I hadn't experienced—rearing, bucking, runaways, and barn-sour. But riding other people's horses and owning your own is the difference between walking a plump pony and jockeying a hot thoroughbred. Understanding a horse takes more than stepping into the stirrup of a tacked-up dude horse.

  I had good intentions, but they didn't make up for my ignorance. I walked at her side every day, chatting about the clouds above and the earth below, fed her a handful of oats each morning, combed the tangles from her mane and tail, and told her I was her friend. But still, whenever she saw a halter in my hand, she ran like a racehorse leaving the starting gate, playing catch-me-if-you-can. I should have stuck with her, walking her down until she turned and faced me. She needed to learn there was no reward for running away. But foolishly, I grabbed a pail of oats and returned to the field, where she inhaled the grain while tossing her head high above my reach. In less than two minutes, she emptied the pail, trotted down the hill and crossed the creek like a cheeky and rebellious teenager. On many occasions, I stood there dumbfounded, the empty halter hanging in my hand.

  I eventually caught Crocus, but only by locking her in the corral when she came in for morning hay. It saved my temper, but taught her nothing. Next came bridling, a war of wits. Up went her head until her ears were poking the clouds, and clamped shut went her mouth until not even a hair could slip between her teeth. So out came the honey, the sweet molasses, carrots, and crunchies, as I bribed her into dropping her head. When she took the treats, I slipped in the honey-coated bit, not realizing she had me right where she wanted me, playing servant.

  Maybe if I lunged her, I could reverse our roles. With her circling me on the end of a long line, I could control her gaits and movement, a step towards becoming boss. Lunging looks easy, but I ended up walking backwards with one very confused horse. This time, I was the one who signed up for a lesson.

  Steve Turner is a respected horse trainer and had taught Crocus the basics those long five years ago. He didn't remember her, but he knew she'd be rusty from lack of use.

  "That animal would have left here barely broke. And she hasn't been ridden since?" He shook his head, staring at me in disbelief. After teaching me the finer points of lunging, he wished me luck, but not before offering some sage advice: "Green horse, green rider. That's a bad combination. You should really have a seasoned horse." I knew he
was right, but I tried to shake it off. In the coming days, I would be haunted by his words.

  Just give me time, I thought. Crocus and I will work it out. But we never did. I always went to her; she never came to me. Her years of running free as a brood mare left her with little need for people. She spooked if I carried a shovel, if the gate chain rattled, or if my jacket flapped in the wind. I should have read the signs, but love can blind you and, despite our problems, I was in love with her.

  Then, one day while I was lunging her, she slowed her pace. The line sagged and brushed her knees. Like a dust devil spinning from the ground, Crocus reared, flashing the whites of her eyes, her body taut. She bolted, charging through the open gate and into the woods. The dragging line fuelled her rage, driving her legs like pounding pistons. I could hear the snapping tree branches and feel the earth shiver as her furious hooves drummed the

  ground. She raced back up the lane, churning the loose dirt and gravel, and veered when she spotted Lucy, her mule colt, galloping along the fenceline. Blinded by her fury, Crocus never saw the barbed wire, running into it with the force of a tank. The top strand broke, snapped back with a vicious bite, and threw her onto her haunches. Struggling to her feet, she resumed the madness, finally returning to the pasture.

  Crocus stood still, her sides heaving and foaming with sweat, her nostrils flared. Approaching her shoulder, I unclipped the line from her halter. She turned to face me, displaying her chest, which was turning red with blood. From her neck to fetlocks, her flesh had been sliced by the wire. I tied her to a post and washed and treated her cuts. The gashes were superficial, but her mental wounds were deep.

  Over the next few days, it was obvious Crocus no longer trusted me. With my confidence crushed, she went on the attack, striking me with her front hooves. She trembled when I haltered her and walked away if I approached her. My dream had turned into a nightmare. Crocus knew I wasn't the boss; worse yet, she knew I was scared of her.

  One spring day, everything came undone. Preparing for a ride, I ignored her swishing tail and resistance to being saddled. I didn't want to spoil her by giving in to her evasive behaviour. What I didn't realize is that I had been spoiling her all along, giving in to her tantrums when I should have worked her through them.

  It was the May long weekend of 1995, the same weekend actor Christopher Reeve broke his neck when he fell from his horse during a cross-country jumping event. I was working Crocus in a trot, but she was fidgeting, rounding her back and ignoring my leg cues. Her stops were usually clean and crisp, but not today. Riding the fenceline next to the road, she nervously quickened her pace. I asked her to stop, but there was no response. Seconds later, she broke into a dead gallop, racing towards the gatepost. I had lost control. I was on a runaway, a loose locomotive.

  In those numbing seconds between leaving the saddle and hitting the ground, I felt the grip of death. My forehead struck gravel, my knee cracked on the saddle horn, and the palm of my hand ripped open. I sat crumpled in the lane, watching the blood run down my shirt. My face burned, my knee was twice its normal size, and the trees, grass, and clouds shifted into hues of black and yellow. I had lost my colour vision.

  A stranger, who was driving by when he witnessed the crash in his rear-view mirror, was now helping me get up. Limping to the house, I stopped to look at Crocus. She stood there like a wild mustang, her head strong and defiant, her eyes hard. I began to cry. Was it the saddle? Was it the bit? Was she in heat? It no longer mattered. I knew we'd never trust one another. I knew Crocus had to go. Steve Turner was right; we were a dangerous couple.

  It took me three weeks to find Crocus a new home. Lyle didn't want her back, and potential buyers were either bucked off or kicked. When it became obvious no one wanted a ten-year-old horse with a bad attitude, a neighbour offered to truck her to the slaughter yard.

  One more phone call, just one more, I promised myself. Time was running out, but I had one card left to play. I called Del, the owner of Crocus's sire. He listened to my story and agreed to help. He spent an hour trying to catch her, eventually snaring her in the bush. Crocus

  fought the rope, pulling back on the tightening noose. I'd read that some horses, mares in particular, will commit suicide rather than give in to capture. Crocus appeared to be one of those mares.

  "For a moment there, I thought I'd have to cut the rope before she choked," Del said. "This is definitely not a horse for the novice, but she's a good-looking animal. I wouldn't mind getting a colt out of her."

  When Del tried to lead Crocus, she balked, pulling back on the shank. Del stepped towards her rear, snapping the end of the rope on her butt. Without hesitating, Crocus moved forward. When she refused to step into the trailer, he again snapped the rope on her rear. She walked in, realizing she had met her match. Her days of explosive tantrums were over.

  Del shut the trailer door. "I'll tell you something," he said. "This horse is not an outlaw. She's just spoiled. She's never been made to do anything she didn't want to do."

  I have never felt so guilty, despite Del assuring me that her problems began long before I owned her. I said a quiet goodbye to Crocus, and then watched the trailer rattle down the road until it disappeared around a bend. I never saw my beautiful black mare again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Don't Fence Me In

  Mesh fencing is ideal for keeping small livestock such as miniature donkeys inside their pastures. Unfortunately, even without barbs, it has a mind of its own. I have had many a wrestling match with the cumbersome rolls.

  In the hit song "Don't Fence Me In," composer Cole Porter heralds the open spaces of yesterday, when a cowboy could ride a cayuse clear to the mountains without opening a gate. Mr. Porter, you can ride double with me any day—I too long for that era when the only barriers were raging rivers, a chain of mountains, and forests so thick no horse could fit its belly between two trunks.

  It's not that I don't think fences are necessary. The problem is, I hate putting up fences. I might like it better if I lived on desert flatland, where the tallest plant was a saguaro cactus and machinery could rumble as the crow flies, pounding in a half-mile of posts in less than a day. But my land slants like an overbite, its slopes strewn with clutches of aspens, boggy springs, and a zillion mole and pocket gopher holes. It eats machinery. So most of my fencing is done by hand, a task that chews my gloves, bites my fingers, and swallows my ego.

  There is an art to building a fence. A stretch of taut wire and perpendicular posts, the wind singing in the lines, the evenly spaced uprights as straight as guardsmen, is a masterful sculpture. A good fence defies pushy livestock, spring floods, and wind-drifted snow. Sadly, I have yet to build such a fence.

  My first line of fencing should have been a cinch. I paced the distance at 120 feet. Only twelve posts and no gates—an easy afternoon's work, or so I thought. It took me more than six hours to hand-auger the twelve postholes. I was fooled by the first two, which went smoothly, but the third one kicked back when I hit a rock halfway down. With my belly pressed to the cold earth, I reached into the dark pit, my fingers probing for a lip, but there was none. I then tinkered with a crowbar, chinking and chipping, but it was as if I had snagged a chunk of Canadian Shield. At a dead end with no detour, I abandoned the hole and began to dig another cavity about a foot over.

  This time, no rocks, just a knot of twisted aspen roots snaring and stalling the auger. I climbed back up the hill to fetch a pair of clippers and slid back down with shears, an axe, and a bow saw. This was it, I was drawing a new line in the dirt, and I was armed and ready.

  Four hours, three boulders, and dozens of plaited roots later, I was finished. Done in. Exhausted. With gouged arms and blistered palms, I stood back, admiring my twelve deep caverns as if at any moment they would begin spewing rich crude. I should have called it a day, but no, I wanted this fence up by dark. I pounded the posts in with a mallet, jarring my teeth and breaking blisters until my hands were raw. But I was on a roll, and with day
light still edging across the sky, why not do the wiring? Surely this would be easier. Roll out the wire, tap in some staples, and presto, I would be the brilliant architect of a fine stretch of barbed wire, or "bob-wahr" as they say down Texas way.

  Well, it didn't take long for me to understand why Texans hated the arrival of this armoured fence. Not only did it end the days of the big ranches by shutting off cattle trails to Montana, it snared animals and then ripped them to shreds, the barbs slashing their legs as they struggled to free themselves. Fierce opposition to these barriers sparked fence wars, with cattlemen cutting homesteaders' fences until wire-cutting was declared a felony. Alas, fencing was here to stay, and today there are more than five hundred patented barbed wires barricading the entire western sky.

  One zealous group declared barbed wire the Devil's Rope, and, in my opinion, it's an appropriate name. I have survived a capsizal while rafting the whirlpools and howling white water of Hell's Gate on British Columbia's Fraser River, but that was a mere scuffle compared to the bloody combat I endured in wiring my fence. The moment I snipped the wire from its spool, I released a wild animal, one with fangs that grabbed, punctured, and didn't let go.

  Like a venomous serpent, it whipped and lashed the air, its razor-sharp teeth cutting my flesh. It gouged my back, slashed my arm, and bit my hand. The wire was alive, pulsing with horror, an evil creature from the pages of a Stephen King novel. I stomped on it, trying to kill the fiend, but it wasn't until I grabbed it several inches from the end, as though I were holding a snake behind its head, that it settled. If I released my grip, it would again whirl and sidewind, trying to return to its circular coil. I heaved a rock on the end of the wire and hiked back up the hill. In a huff, I rang several local hardware stores.