a lesson

One of our ducklings taught me a lesson with its last moments of life.

On Saturday morning, my daughter went out to care for the birds, accompanied by her dear friend who had spent the night. They came in, wide-eyed, to report that one of the ducklings was bloody and its wing was shaking. As I finished up my work inside, they went out again to assess the situation, and they found several holes in the ground next to the shelter. Apparently a predator dug its way into the ducklings’ shelter during the night. “The duckling is dying,” my daughter told me steadily. “Its whole side is covered in blood.”

At this point, it felt very important for me to get dressed and braid my hair as I prepared to euthanize the little duck. It took a long time to get myself ready, find the combination for the padlock, unlock the gun, and make all the necessary preparations. I slowly completed this intricate and measured process, then went outside.

The injured duck was resting in a little group with the other duckling. Even though it was dying, its eyes were bright, and it held up head with grace and interest. We carried it away from the rest of the ducklings and set it under a tree. Then the bullets jammed in the gun, and we had to put everything on hold while my friend teased them all out with a screwdriver. Finally, we returned to the duck waiting under the tree. Just before we ended its life, a fly buzzed near its face, probably attracted by the bird’s wound. The duckling brightened and snapped at the fly with such passion and vitality that I almost felt a twinge of envy. I am carrying this image in my heart, where it has radiance and weight. The memory will teach me more when the time is right.