Nine Duck Morning

Have you ever wondered about why we become attached to our pets? And how much they mean to our lives?

Many years ago, in my highland home, a calf was born with her umbilical cord torn off when her mother rolled over and nearly squashed the baby. It cost a lot of money to get the vet out, so I called her "Mercedes" (a somewhat expensive car model). The mother could not support her, so she became my responsibility. We then brought her down the mountain to our place on the coast, and a drought struck in 2019. Here is a poem that mixes humour with tragedy in equal proportions. I hope you enjoy this little bit of life on the farm. I have entered it into a local competition called "Quills and Ink".

NINE-DUCK MORNING

It was a nine-duck morning – I remember it well.

There I was, sitting on the verandah with my dear old husband,

enjoying a chai latte,

when I decided to join my feathered friends.

I spread my bony elbows in full flight, tripped on the rug, gashed my knee,

and landed on the dry grass a metre below.

“What did you want to do something as stupid as that for, woman?”

“Oh! Shut up, you silly old fart! I just want to fly free.”

The old darling knew better than to stop me,

even though blood was flowing like a river down my leg,

the bun in my hair was draped untidily near my left ear,

and it took me half an hour to roll around into the best position to get up,

cursing as usual!

Eight of the ducks flew away –

a soliloquy of swishing,

a drama of drums beating,

a fathom of feathers fluttering.

Gemima waited for me,

pecked at my unsteady legs and waddled off ahead.

I followed her, down over crunching grass, past an empty pond,

under the willow turning gold before drought claimed it.

The magpies mumbled,

the willy wagtail willingly wagged its tail,

the plovers proclaimed their precinct

and the crows converged and conversed.

At the bottom of the hill, Gemima came upon her errant mates,

sitting disconsolately next to a big bog,

which in turn surrounded a patch of green slime.

It took me ages to stumble along the familiar pathway,

carved over many years of cattle wending their way to water;

so deep now, it was hard to negotiate,

and no water to be found.

One of the ducks did a couple of sideways flicks

to quell a stray feather on her shoulder.

‘Hey Bird Dog’ by the Everly Brothers sprang to my mind,

but I couldn’t remember the lyrics.

I involuntarily tapped my toes as I attempted a shimmy,

but they all watched on with disdain and shuffled embarrassedly to one side.

Suddenly Gemima ran at me quacking and spitting

in an attempt to divert my attention.

Then I saw what she was trying to hide.

Two beautiful big brown eyes were staring at me lifelessly,

surrounded by lovely long eyelashes

and grey hide drawn tightly over tired old bones;

an ear tag with number obliterated and no teeth in her head.

How long had she been stuck in the mire?

How many cries for help had fallen on damned deaf ears?

My pet cow, Mercedes.

I rolled myself into a tight little ball and cried,

abandoning my fluffy friend in a fit of tears that eventually ran out

and left me dry, empty, and bereft.

My old man found me at last.

“Well, you’d better take me home now,” I said,

“the bellbirds are calling me back to the verandah.”

A single tear drifted down his weatherworn face,

“My God, you’re a beautiful woman!”

“And you’re not bad yourself.”