The Legend of Plucky-the-Duck

May 19, 2023 / stidyatkusane / 12 Comments

This is the story of a little duck – although I would caution you against calling him that to his face. It would most likely deeply offend him. For as far as this particular waterfowl is concerned he is not a duck, he is a CHICKEN! The fact that he is relatively small, short-necked, large-billed, web-footed and has a distinctive waddling gait is of no account to him. So what if his ancestors branched off on their own separate evolutionary tree way back in the mists of time? Likewise, why should he be bothered by all that Linnaeus terminology about classes, family, genera and species?

For this little duck, it all boils down to a question of “belonging” and he knows precisely where his true home is. In the chicken run, surrounded by all his chicken friends.

To understand how Plucky-the-Duck-Who-Thinks-He-Is-A-Chicken (which is his full name but from here on, I will simply refer to him as Plucky) came to identify so strongly with a type of bird whose size, form, shape, patterning, colour and habits of behaviour do not quite match his own it is necessary to go back to the curious circumstances surrounding his birth.

Plucky’s parents were two normal Dutch Quacker Ducks and like many happy couples, they decided to raise a family. Eggs were laid. The mother dutifully sat on them. After the requisite period of incubation, the eggs hatched – all except one which the mother then abandoned, presumably believing it to be infertile. Or maybe after twenty-eight days, she just got bored of sitting. I am sure I would have done the same if placed in a similar predicament.

On the odd chance that she might have quit her parenting duties a little too soon, we decided to place the one remaining Dutch Quacker egg in an incubator full of chicken eggs. Amazingly, there was, indeed, a life form in it who then proceeded to bludgeon his way through the shell. This happened at more or less the same time as all the chicken eggs commenced hatching.

The act of identification seems fundamental in such situations and since the first thing Plucky saw, when he emerged into the light was a whole batch of hatching chickens it is perhaps hardly surprising that is what he decided he must be.

Despite their evident differences, it would probably have been better for all if we had let the whole matter rest there. Instead, once he got a little older, we decided to be hard-nosed about it. A little human intervention was called for. Because of Plucky’s obvious confusion over who and what and why he is, it seemed to us some psychological counselling was in order. A little friendly guidance, a nudge in the right avian direction. A course in Duck Deep Therapy.

It so happened that our neighbour had a pair of Quacker Ducks and three ducklings, the latter more or less Plucký’s age. When he offered them to us, knowing we had a big pond on which they could cavort and play and do other duck things whereas he did not, we saw this as a perfect opportunity to integrate Plucky with his own kind.

We would put him in the pond with them.

Two boxes were duly placed on the water’s edge, the one containing the family of ducks, the other, a bewildered Plucky. We released him first. Some deep-rooted instinct obviously did kick in for he took to his new environment like a…well… proverbial duck to water. Once he seemed comfortably established in his new liquid home, we released the inmates of the other box.

*Like a duck to water…Plucky in his new home*.

It was at this point that our plan to re-integrate Plucky with his kind began to unravel…

On being released from their box, the two parent ducks panicked and charged off into the surrounding shrubbery, leaving their confused offspring behind. The abandoned ducklings, in turn, saw Plucky floating on the other side of the pond, and, recognising him as one of their own kind, went paddling in his direction. Clearly appalled by the sight of this small flotilla advancing, full steam towards him, Plucky went into escape mode With a violent clattering of wings, he launched himself over the sheep enclosure fence, gained altitude, hovered briefly and then tumbled, out of sight, down into the valley below.

Where he landed I had no idea. With a dull foreboding, I set off with Michael Ndlovu, our farm manager, to scour the countryside, kicking through leaves, looking under bushes, clambering over rocks and staring until my neck ached. To no avail. The little duck had simply vanished into the ether. Feeling both a little teary and angry with myself for being so presumptuous as to assume I understood Plucky’s needs better than he did, I trudged back home.
The next morning, I was woken in the early hours by a huge commotion in the hen house. When I stumbled out in the freezing cold with my torch to investigate, I discovered one of the hens had accidentally laid an egg in her sleep and then worked herself up into a state about it. Miracle of miracles, I also found a very cold and forlorn Plucky huddled up against the outside gate to the enclosure. As I approached he looked up at me beseechingly and uttered a few feeble ‘quacks’. He had somehow found his way home in the dark. It seemed pretty clear we had not taken into account Plucky’s resolve or his loyalty to the only real family he had ever known.
Again, this is where we should have left it but in the same perverse fashion, we made the snobbishly human mistake of thinking we knew best. If we tried one more time maybe it just might do the trick.

It didn’t.

They say birds of a feather flock together but that was definitely not the case here. Clearly traumatised by the thought of sharing the pond with these feathered imposters, Plucky took to the air again, disappearing into the same valley. A fruitless search followed. Twenty-four hours later I found him curled up outside the hen house door.

That settled it. Plucky could stay with the hens.

*Where he most wants to be…Plucky with a friend.*

Although it didn’t enter our reckoning at the time there is another reason Plucky’s decision to remain in the hen house proved a wise one. Within six months of his return, all the other ducks had disappeared, either killed off by local predators or migrating to new pastures. Not so Plucky. He has continued to prosper and flourish. He has now outlived three successive Rhode Island Red roosters (Rowdy, Randy and Rufous) and I suspect he may outlast the fourth (Randolph).

Happily ensconced in his home, he continues to charm us in many ways: the earnest bumbling walk, the body shape, the head scrunched down, the gentle eyes so full of understanding, the endless preening, the look of sleepy disgruntlement when I shine my torch into the hen house late at night to make sure they are all okay, his dogged insistence on flying from the top perch when I open the same house each morning and crash-landing, in a maelstrom of dust, into the ground below.

To bring some variation into their existence, I used to open the hen house gate every afternoon and allow the motley band to free range through the garden. Plucky came to love these big adventures. Jaunty but resolute, he would stride off, along with the rest of the gang, like he was David Livingstone searching for the source of the Nile. Sadly, the resident predators soon got wind of this daily routine and when one of our prize Bosvelder roosters got snatched, in mid-cock-a-doodle-do, by a lurking Caracal I was forced to put an end to their little outings into nature.

*Plucky heads off on another awfully big adventure*…

Of the three it was our original rooster, the larger-than-life and boisterous Rowdy who Plucky developed the closest bond. They became inseparable friends. He has kept a much lower profile with his two successors, Randy and Rufus, and initially treated Randolph with a deep suspicion bordering on active dislike.

*Rowdy-the-Rooster and Plucky-the-Duck having a deep discussion*…

Maybe it was a male domination/territorial thing. A need to assert himself. Show who is the head honcho in this yard. For a while, it even appeared that Plucky held the upper hand. Each morning, just after sunrise, I would open the henhouse door. Out would shoot the burly Big Red Rooster, with the determined little Dutch Quacker Duck in hot pursuit. Around and around the run they would go until, tiring from the effort, Plucky would suddenly stop and go for a drink of water and then perform his ablutions with a self-satisfied air.

I think a peace conference – presided over by a panel of senior hens – must have been called because suddenly a truce was declared. All hostilities ceased. Individual egos were set aside in the interests of the flock. While they haven’t become exactly close friends, Plucky and Randolph now treat each other with wary respect.

Plucky also went through a brief but rather trying period when his sexual urges got the better of him. He began to emanate a discernible lustiness and became obsessed with the idea of finding a mate. In this case: a chicken mate.

He is at a serious disadvantage in this respect because he is much smaller than the hens. Undeterred, he waited until one hen was happily flapping around in a dust bath and then leapt on her and had his wicked way. Later, Plucky developed a hopeless fixation on another Rhode Island Red hen, trailing around after her with a moonstruck look on his face. He even insisted on sharing the nesting box with her whenever she wanted to lay an egg, getting very excited when it appeared.

I think he secretly hoped there might be the embryo of another little Plucky inside…

Alas, his attempt at courtship was a dismal failure. The hen obviously considered him an unsuitable paramour and grew increasingly agitated with his unwanted advances. In the end Plucky began to make such a nuisance of himself I was forced to put him in his own separate run for a few days to allow his passion to cool. Luckily, it did…

As he has matured and grown older, Plucky has adopted a more fatherly, protective, proprietorial attitude towards the hens. As a long-serving member of the Parliament of Fowls, I think he now sees his role as that of a senior statesman whose job is to lend a guiding hand. He takes his duties very seriously. As the sun is abdicating each day, he stands at the hen-house door and waits until he has been able to mark off every hen as present and accounted for, before entering the chamber himself. Usually, with much pleased-as-punch quacking and a wagging of his curly tail…

Despite the fact he is not a chicken (I must insist – do not tell him that!), the rest of the flock have accepted Plucky’s presence with equanimity and good grace. For his part, Plucky is quite happy to go on living in his totally deluded state. I envy him for that ability. Every night when I go to lock them up I see him huddled up happily amongst all his chicken pals…

There is obviously some sort of moral fable in all of this. Taken together, the inmates of the hen house provide a shining lesson in tolerance towards foreigners and acceptance of social diversity. I am only too happy to admit to a degree of anthropomorphism – an impulse to identify with him – in my attitude towards Plucky.

He reminds me of the humans I love best – the ones who don’t quite fit in but find their own quiet space in society nevertheless…

GALLERY:
A young Plucky…

Fully grown, Plucky starts to explore his known universe…

Plucky is very conscious of his appearance and spends an inordinate amount of time preening himself…

…but he still often ends up a muddy mess…

As a Dutch Quacker Duck, Plucky has opinions about a lot of things and is not afraid to express them…

“Alright!” quacks Plucky the Duck, “That’s enough about me for now…”

THE END

The Chicken Whisperer

March 9, 2019 / stidyatkusane / 9 Comments

I grew up in an era in which children were still expected to make themselves useful. This was certainly the case on our farm where, because of the financial slough we had fallen it to, my father had been forced to go back to being a commercial pilot, based in the Sudan, leaving my mother behind to cope as best she could.

During the school holidays my brothers, Paul and Peter (the eldest, Patrick had already left for university), helped out, dipping and dosing the cattle, putting up fences and preparing the lands for the next seasons crops. Cut off from the world and heavily involved with the farm, we never got to do the things most teenagers take for granted – date girls, go to parties, hang out with the other kids.

Because I was next to him in age I started tagging along with Pete, helping him out as best I could with his many duties (I drew the line at dissecting and examining the entrails of dead cows, many of which were maggoty and rotten, to see what they had expired of).

Even back then it was obvious to me that Pete was going to grow up in to one of those tough, shrewd, practical farmers who know how to make money.

Meticulous in his planning, he was nothing if not thorough. He also had a real feel for and a connection with the land – he loved it and respected it but, at the same time, he knew how to shape it and knead it and alter it to his own understanding.

I think my parents were a little worried that I might feel left out in all of this but, because I was the youngest and least practical of the brothers, they were stuck on what to do with me. In the end they found a solution. They put me in charge of the chickens.

Off to feed the chickens with Bonzo the dog.

As anyone who knows me well will tell you – I am nothing if not obsessive! I threw myself with gusto in to the job. I insisted the chickens be fed proper layers mash, not just mealies, so they would lay better. I expanded the flock. I even managed to make a bit of pocket money selling eggs to one of the teachers at the next door mission station.

I used the cash to buy myself some colourful shirts which meant I could finally dispense with the boring old school-issue khaki ones I had always worn because my ever-frugal mother did not want to waste money on unnecessary frivolities. I was on my way to becoming trendy.

Being in charge of the chickens was a lot of work and not without its problems. One morning, when I went up to feed them, I discovered a python had slithered in during the night, and gobbled up most of the chicks I had put, for their protection, in to a special run. The resident mongoose also had my flock firmly in its sights.

Once past my teenager years I gave up on my chickens. I went to university, I got a job, I ended up drawing cartoons for a living. I wasn’t really in a location that permitted having chickens either.

Fast forward a good many years. I found myself on a farm again.

Even then, living in the hills, it wasn’t really in my long-term plans to return to my youthful vocation. Fate decreed otherwise. One day, a lecturer friend of ours turned up unexpectedly with a box containing six female pullets which he had appropriated from the Agriculture faculty at the local University. Insisting I had the requisite set of skills, I immediately volunteered to look after them,

And so it was that my life came full circle. I was back where it all began. I was in my old habitat.

The chooks checking out their new home. Michael in background.

I was very pleased with my six little hens especially as they were Rhode Island Reds, just like the ones I had on the farm. What I did not realise, though, was that there was an impostor amongst them!

Little clues and tell-tale signs began to emerge. It was bigger and bulkier and more aggressive than the other hens. It had a larger, very red, comb. Its tail kept growing and growing, until it resembled a cascading waterfall.

All doubt was finally removed when I was woken up early one morning by what sounded like a badly-played trumpet striking up in the Hen House. I realised immediately that the strangulated gurglings I was hearing was meant to be a cock-a-doodle-doo.

There was no longer any doubt – She was a He!

Once he had mastered his crow, there was no stopping this rooster. From way before sun-up to sunrise there was a non-stop, raucous cacophony, like a machine-gun going off – only the war he was involved in did not seem to have an end.

This I did not remember from my early days as a chicken whisperer…

He was a magnificent specimen, however: big and bumptious and swanky and incredibly self-assured. We could not find it within ourselves to do the obvious thing – turn him in to coq au vin. Rowdy – as we named him – was here to stay.

Rowdy, in all his puffed-up, self-importance.

Rowdy, for all his puffed-up, self importance, was extremely protective of his little harem. I often found myself having to ward him off with a big stick when I went up to let them out in the morning. I think he mistook my intentions towards his wives.

Rowdy had a nice dramatic sense, too, strutting out ahead of his hens when I let them out in to the garden, the very essence of a Modern Major-General.

Since we appeared to be stuck with Rowdy – and his incessant racket – we decided we might as well go the whole hog and make use of his services. Karen, on whose farm, Kusane, I live, bought a cheap Chinese incubator so we could start hatching our eggs. It did not work very well so we up-scaled and got an American-made model instead.

It was at this point, my life took another peculiar little twist.

When our neighbour, who was raising Dutch Quacker Ducks, heard we had an incubator he asked if we would mind trying to hatch an egg which one of his mother ducks had abandoned. So we put it in with all the chicken eggs and lo – it hatched!

From the outset the duckling, whom Karen named Plucky (because that is what he is) faced something of an identity crisis. Because he had been born amongst a whole batch of them he was firmly convinced he was a CHICKEN!

When our neighbour offered us his two adult ducks and their three ducklings because we had a big pond in which they could swim we saw our chance to convince Plucky he wasn’t, in fact, a CHICKEN! We would put him in the pond too.

This is where our plan to re-intergrate him with his own kind began to unravel…

On being let out of their box, the two parent ducks panicked and charged off up the hill immediately above the pond leaving their bewildered offspring behind them. A great hue and cry followed.

The abandoned ducklings, in turn, saw Plucky floating on the water, on the other side of the pond, and decided he would make a good substitute parent, so went splashing after him. Plucky was having none of this and with a violent clattering of the wings, took off in the opposite direction, plainly terrified out of his, admittedly small, mind at the sight of this flotilla advancing, full-steam, towards him.

Plucky during his brief soujourn on the Big Pond.

Hoping the ducks would soon resolve their differences, arrive at an amicable understanding and settle down to live happily ever after in their spacious new home I decided to leave them to their own devices. It didn’t pan out that way. I hadn’t taken into account Plucky’s resolve or his loyalty to the only real family he had ever known.

When I went back, later, to check up on how they were all doing I discovered that Plucky was gone. Michael, our farm manager, and I spent the rest of the day scouring the countryside looking for him but to no avail. Plucky had simply vanished in to the ether.

Next morning, I was yet again woken in the early hours by a huge commotion in the hen house. When I went out in the freezing cold with my torch to investigate, I discovered one of the hens had accidentally laid an egg in her sleep and then worked herself up into a state about it.

I also found a very cold and forlorn Plucky huddled up against the gate. He had somehow got through the duck-pond fence and found his way home in the dark.

We made one more attempt to convince him he was a duck with the same end result. That settled it for us. Plucky could stay with the hens and Rowdy whom he hero-worshipped.

Plucky with his hero – Rowdy the Rooster.

In the mean time, the flock had expanded to almost fifty chickens. We had begun to experience a few logistical problems. There were a couple of unexplained deaths. The hatching rates in the incubator were still abysmally low. What were we going to do with all the eggs the hens were laying? Was it all worth the effort?

And so we did what the Government does whenever it hits an obstacle it is not sure how to overcome – we appointed a Commission of Enquiry in to the State of Kusane’s Chickens with additional reference to the Curious Case of Plucky-the-Duck-who-thinks-he-is-a-Chicken. We even brought in a vet who is an expert on poultry as a consultatant.

Provided the results don’t get fudged, ANC-style, I hope to report on the outcome in due course…