abortion

abortion

Nearly five years ago, my daughter, Bo, fell in love with a tiny duckling while we were at a farm picking up a hen for my old rooster, Wiggy, when his most recent mate had passed on. By the time Wiggy died last winter at the age of almost 14 he’d outlived 7 large redheads which makes me wonder if I should dye my hair red or be grateful I’m blonde. In any case, Bo insisted we get the little duck.

“No ducks,” I said. “We’re here for a hen.”

We had recently lost two ducks to a dog attack and my heart was still broken, but mere moments later I caved in. Bo and her friend Jake spent 20 minutes chasing down and catching the bird, who, it seemed right from the start, had a rebellious streak. We loaded him and the hen, Matilda, into the car, where the duck broke free from Bo’s grasp several times and raced around my feet, forcing me to pull off to the side of the road.

He was impossible from day one, that duck – and impossible is perhaps the feature I most admire in my men. Over the next few years, Duck, who would answer to no other name (we tried them all) grew into an enormous, strikingly handsome pain-in-the-butt. Think James Bond, but short and feathered.

His sense of humor was legendary on our farm. His first autumn here, I wrote a column about his penchant for flying onto the roof and standing on the chimney like a gigantic weather vane, forcing my husband, poor David, to climb up after him and carry him down, all 16 pounds of him, under one arm while trying to keep from crashing to the ground with the other arm. More Duck columns soon followed – he was truly inspirational.

Duck tormented and taunted the dogs, the horses, the hens and anyone else who came along during his day, laughing hysterically the entire time. The rest of his time was spent standing on his rock, surveying his domain and accepting compliments from his many admirers. His two female ducks, Buttercup and Sunny, sat beneath him, casting adoring glances upwards at their man.

On...