Wild Friends

“Oh, hello, Friend, who are you?” I ask the strange bird that flies up from my flock as I enter the duck pen this evening. It’s smaller, dark brown, and looks naked compared to my gang. Did the geese get angry and pluck the feathers of one of my ducks?

I stare longer in surprise. This bird, with its bright pink bill and Mr. Potato Head eyes, is definitely not mine, but it’s unclear whether it’s wild or domesticated. It simply showed up in the pen with my flock, munching away on grain that I’d tossed down only minutes before.

Wildlife has a way of showing up here and doing unusual things. Once, a deer wanted to hang out with the donkeys. And the other day, a doe was acting strangely in the road, walking back and forth and bowing, as if dancing with an unseen partner.

I move toward this bird, and it flies up onto the rail of the pen. I say, “Please stay, Friend—I’m going to go get my phone to snap a picture of you. I’d like to know who you are.”

When I return from the house, I’m thrilled to see Friend has listened and is still perched on the rail, watching my flock busily eating grain below.

Snapping a few quick pictures, I move forward, which causes Friend to spook and fly down to the creek. “Oh, don’t go! I won’t hurt you or try to touch you. I just want to know who you are. Did you run away, come from another flock, get lost? Why are you all alone?”

Friend ignores me and splashes around in the creek while I put the rest of my flock indoors for the night. Once they’re all safely in, I decide to keep the door to the outer pen open, refill their water, and put out a fresh bowl of grain, in case Friend is someone’s pet.

After checking on Friend one last time, I say, “Good night, hope to see you in the morning light,” and head up to the house.

Once inside, I download the blurry photos I’ve taken so I can do an image search and see what type of duck Friend is.

A Google search shows me a clear photo that looks exactly like Friend: a black-bellied whistling-duck! I learn that they aren’t rare but live all over the United States. What is rare is that Friend is alone, as they generally live in large, noisy flocks.

My flock is noisy, so maybe that's what attracted Friend to them. She seems to be an adult, as the juveniles have black beaks and pale legs. Her beak is a vivid pink, but I couldn’t see her legs when she was perched on the rail or swimming in the creek. Apparently, black-bellied ducks really do whistle, but I didn’t hear that. If I had, I’d have gone down to the Duck Hall earlier, curious about an unfamiliar noise.

Excited by this encounter, I climb into bed and wait for the morning light. When it comes, it’s storming. I grab my rain jacket and let the flock out first, figuring they’ll let me know if Friend is here.

The four ladies, as I call my geese, are agitated. They’re not eating or drinking, which isn’t normal for them after spending the night without food or water. They walk in a tight group to the side of the Duck Hall and point with their beaks while raising a racket. Friend is here, I think, as I hurry over and take a look.

Nothing but tall weeds. Might the Ladies have smelled her from the night before? I carefully make my way through, getting drenched by the rain and the wet foliage. Next I go to the creek, where some of the ducks are already splashing in the murky water. I look up and down, over and behind the wild parsnip, jewelweed, and tall grasses—still nothing.

After chores, I head back and look again, then sit on the wet picnic table, listening for a whistle, but after an hour I’m soggy and need to get ready for class.

Goodbye, my Friend, I think. Thank you for your visit, and I wish you well on your journey. May you find your flock and be happy.

That night, when I tell Dane about it, we remember that as we watched the doe in the road three days ago, Maurice, my shy gray tabby cat, came into view. "Maurice!" we exclaimed. It’s been four years since we discovered him playing in the front yard with a deer. Could this be her again? Does Maurice also have a secret wild Friend? Who else visits when we’re not looking?

Deer with Maurice