The Muscovies are coming

Our venture into duck farming started quite by accident. My daughter Asalma was on her way to the beach one wet day when she spotted a ‘teensy weensy itsy bitsy’ little ducky in a drain. She picked it up, maybe minutes before some mutt did.

That was two months ago. Since then I’ve had to locate, settle and learn to take care of four more little muscovies. They are interesting. The first one, who we shall give the name (in our farm having a name means never having to be dinner) ‘Asalma’s duck’ almost didn’t make it five days into the experience.

It was a wet and gloomy day,  and I had not taken Asalma’s Duck out of the weather thinking the damn thing might actually enjoy the rain. Towards the dusk I had a look to see how it was doing in the old tub in which he had to stay until some size or smarts could be achieved. The bottom was perforated, so another little bowl was acting as the pool in the tub. Sorta like a duck jacuzzi if you get the drift.

Damn duck was almost dead. Too much rain for it, and the lil bugger was trembling, almost catatonic. A quick blow dry, a towel wrap, and some massaging but none of it looked like it was working. I was thinking we had named it a bit too quick, it would have made a cute bit of curry even at that size. ANyway it survived the night. Next day it was hungry as hell as as mean as a yardfowl.

I got the other four from a villager up at Patience Hill, a mile or so away. They didn’t look to be relatives of ‘A D’ so I exchanged  a pair of peafowl for them. I chose three small ones who looked a bit female next to the rest of the brood. Young ducks are easier to sex than chicken or peafowl, and I  mean that in a pure way.