By Chuck Woodbury
EDITOR, MOTORHOME DRIVER AND DUCK FAN
These are my new friends. They introduced themselves last evening, about five minutes after I had leveled up the motorhome in the Southern Oregon RV Park in Medford, Oregon.
I stepped out the door to check out the scene and there they were, standing by the steps, quacking. They quacked and quacked. There was no end to it. “Food.” That is what they were saying. It was more than a request: It was a demand.
Hear me read my story:
They had no fear of me. I knew right away they were not wild ducks. They live in the park’s pond. I named them Moe, Larry and Curly. I told them I was onto their game and food would not be forthcoming.
Archie was looking out the window at the odd creatures. I do not think he had ever seen a duck before. He was whining. So I grabbed his leash, shortening it up to about two feet, and took him outdoors with me. The ducks backed up about two feet and stared at us. Archie stared at the ducks. He had no idea what the creatures were up to, nor did he understand their strange language.
It was cold, so Archie and I retreated into the motorhome. I assumed the birds would flee, But an hour later they were still there. Okay, I said, you win, I will feed you. So I brought out a handful of dry dog food and feed them right out of my hand. They were not polite. It’s a good thing my fingers are tightly secured to my hand or those ducks would have swallowed them in one gulp.
This morning, just after first light, I once again heard quacking. They were at the front door. “Good day, sir. Might we bother you for more of those delicious morsels?”
Of course I was not surprised: You feed a duck, you’re friends for life. I knew that. So I gave each duck three pellets, a breakfast snack. And then I returned to my cozy motorhome for my own breakfast.
It is now 3 p.m., and Moe, Larry and Curly are back. I’m ignoring them, which is difficult for me. I love ducks, have all my life. I never eat them either because in my book you don’t eat your friends.