Encounter with a duck

Duncan (on left) and friend

           
Duncan paddles softly up to shore, climbs out onto a flat rock. He approaches us cautiously walking pigeon-toed, body swaying slowly side to side.

            “It’s okay, Duncan,” I say. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

            The Mallard duck cocks his head sideways, holding my gaze with one eye. I’m fascinated by his iridescent head—dazzling with royal blue and emerald as the sun plays over it. I suspect that Duncan is looking for a handout. He certainly has reason to expect one. I gave him a cracker the evening before when he waddled through our campsite, closely examining the ground of our cooking area.

            We were on Little Harbor Island in Lake George where my husband and I joined some old friends from my college camping club for a reunion.

            “He’s the same duck that was here last year,” says Sam.

            It’s obvious to me how he knows. I had recognized the duck from the previous day because he’s missing a part of his right foot. Some of the webbing was cut off at an angle. I decided that such a personable duck deserved a name.

            “I’m calling him Duncan,” I say. “He keeps going back to the lake for a dunk.”

            To my surprise, nobody groans. So Duncan Duck he is—for at least as long as we are on the island.

            I think Duncan must be a loaner. He’s come solo to our campsite several times each day.           But Laureen said, “Why not. He’s done his duty for the year.”

            She’s right. I saw a mother Mallard leading six tiny balls of fluff into the lake at Bolton Landing the day we arrived. She kept them all in line with gentle quackings. No Mallard dad was in sight.

            Steve, who prepared dinner last night, had deliberately left vegetable scraps on the ground for Duncan. So I left some apple peels this morning. I offer a tiny piece to Duncan. He takes it from my hand but lets it drop.

            “No apples for you Duncan?” I ask.

            “He doesn’t have teeth, you know,” says Sam.

            “Okay. How about a crasin?” I drop a dried cranberry at the duck’s feet. He gobbles it up and looks at me. I toss a few more. He eats one after another.

            “I wonder what the park policy is about feeding wildlife,” says Sam.

            I hadn’t thought of that. But I can’t be the first person to feed this duck. He’s too people-friendly. But anyway, Duncan’s had enough. He ignores my last crasian, waddles down the sloping rock into the water, and paddles off.

            I knew we’d see him again.