Thus far this summer, domestic tranquility has prevailed in the barnyard. After 15 years, I have learned to accept Gladys as the individual she is. She is not going to change.
Her ingratitude for my daily supplications on her behalf I finally have come to ignore. I find no mellifluous tone to her incessant honking, no comprehension of her grabbing food as if she fears another coup compatriot will get to it first, no tolerance for her constant bossing the rest of the community around and no deference to her prideful strutting in front of everyone else, but, as I say, I have come to accept it all.
In turn, I have the delightful companionship of Henry, a prince of a gander, if ever there was one. His ever-ready greeting, in a beautiful cadence, devoid of any sense of rebuke, but rather of delight in my companionship, compensates for any snubbing on Gladys’s part. When newcomers join the flock or gaggle, he greets them with open wings, welcoming them to the fold.
For his part, Quack remains bonded to Gladys. I cannot tell if he sees himself as a suitor or an understudy. Quite clearly, Gladys does not view him as a competitor. She allows him to dine with her, and she does not attempt to take his food for herself. I think she likes the attention he gives her.
Quack is a Khaki Campbell drake, his name deriving from Mrs. Adele Campbell, an English lady from Gloucestershire who dabbled in fowl as I do, and who developed the breed during the Boer War. The coloring of the feathers resembled the uniforms of the British Army, hence she came up with the term khaki.
Khaki Campbell ducks are the most prolific egg layers of all duck breeds, laying well over 300 eggs in a year. Quack’s mate was an exemplary example of that ability, but regrettably she died last year. After her demise, came the bonding between Quack and Gladys. They must have something in common other than web feet and rounded beaks.
Many years ago I inherited a flock of Muscovy ducks, a wonderful breed, the members of which are personable and quite industrious. One of my drakes was a superb mouser, better than any cat I ever had. He could catch a mouse in a flash and then consume it head-first. He would strut around the farm with the mouse tail hanging out of his mouth to brag and let everyone see his success.
Most chickens stop laying eggs between the ages of two and three, after which they often become fodder for the stewpot. In our situation, they pass on to honored and well-fed retirement. Perhaps it is the fear of the stewpot culmination that keeps our two Rhode Island reds laying at the ages of 5 and 6.
Whatever the reason, normally we get two eggs per day. Unlike Domineckers, my favorite breed of chickens, they are devoid of personality, but they are not mean. In our barnyard they are at the bottom of the pecking order, always getting pushed aside by Gladys, but having come to understand that such is how life is, and they must adapt to the modus vivendi.
Across the years, I have developed a keen appreciation of the likes and dislikes of various fowl. In addition to the standard feeds, they have some special favorites. Apple slices are high on their list of delicacies. Here is one area where the chickens have an advantage over Gladys. If fed an uncut apple, the chickens can break into it with their beaks, whereas Gladys and the ducks cannot. Gladys always seems peeved if I have not cut the apple into slices, but I at least like to give the chickens the occasional one-up on her.
Finally, Henry seems to have learned that coming into the house is not to be, despite his pecking at the back door. To assuage his disappointment, I try to give him special treats, and what he enjoys most of all, in-depth conversations, for he is a master of banter.
