We’ve been looking for some ducks since our last female duck died a couple of weeks ago. I found her outside the chicken-house, with the runner drake, Akbar, standing over her. He couldn’t understand why she was no longer interested in his sexual games, but he’s never been one to let death or species difference stand in the way of his good times. As I write this, he’s probably out in the yard, his corkscrew penis dragging through the grass slightly behind him like a mutant banana slug, as he chases a goose until it’s exhausted so he can mount it.
Either sex will do.
These were the last three Pekins left from the local feed store “poultry days”, which according to the store manager, was a harrowing month of death and stench from the time the crate hit the loading dock. A blast of winter killed roughly half of them en route to the store, and the numbers continued to decline steadily as children crowded the brooder tank to get their first good look at a geometric die-off.
These appear to be vigorous, so far. They are currently bathing in a soup of quick-oats, tepid water and shit, and wheezing enthusiastically. They should be out in the yard and hauling ass to get away from Akbar in no time.