Alas, I’ve no photos of this special young man. His name is Michael. We met him at the Middlesex Livestock Auction a few weeks ago when we brought an installment of, one of many, ducks to be auctioned off. This is not an enjoyable experience for us. We love these gentle, sweet creatures, and their mammas who hatched them. We part with them out of necessity, not a desire to get rid of them. Yes, we could take the eggs away from the ducks when they’re laying, and I suppose that at some point we’ll have to do this, but a broody duck is an awe-inspiring force of nature; beautiful, territorial, gentle, diligent, imploring and protective.
When we first saw young Michael his face was the picture of earnest, youthful concentration as he studiously inspected our three lots of Muscovy ducks through the open-faced, chicken wired containers we’d fabricated for them. (We did this very deliberately, so the handlers would keep their paws off the plumed ones, particularly the scrawny, bedazzle- belted, macho guy who absolutely must show all and sundry that he can conquer a pigeon or, under duress, even a chicken, and who we call ‘the rhinestone cowboy’).
Michael realized the ducks were ours. How could he not? I couldn’t help going over to their boxes and speaking to them out of guilt, saying ” oh, those are good babies. oh its okay, its okay). When Michael asked me about them I was relieved to be able to focus my thoughts on useful human communication and explain that they’d lived outside, on the pond, that they’d not been fed medicated feed (bad for ducks), that they liked lettuce and slugs, etc…. I asked him about himself. He is 12. His parents have a farm and a nursery business in Waterbury, CT. He and his younger sisters help out. They have chickens but he’d like to have some ducks and maybe, sometime, some quail. He didn’t have a pond but could rig-up some kind of water source/kiddie pool for them. We talked about our quail and chickens and our ducks; muscovies and call ducks. He told me that his Dad told him that Muscovies were the best and that they didn’t NEED water; they like it but don’t need it. I agreed.I talked to him about turkeys and he guided me over to a crate to show me some that were being offered. He reached into the crate and picked up the tiny pale creatures, deftly and with purpose. I held one before I mentioned that I was more interested in heritage breeds and didn’t want the white industrial turkeys because of health problems and the fact that they are incapable of breeding, having been so overbred themselves. He put them down gently and thoughtfully. We parted and the next time I caught sight of him he’d circled back to our ducks, and was, again, peering into their cages and touching them gently.
When the bidding started we were across the room from Michael but we kept an eye on him. He didn’t appear to have any adult supervision but we later learned that he’d been looked after by an elder friend of his Dad’s who brought him to the auction for the first time. We bid on some heritage turkeys and were successful. Our ducks came up for bid and he bid. He was outbid the first round. On the second round we payed careful attention, praying that he would win the bid and he did. We didn’t stick around for the final lot. We were elated that Michael had become steward of three of our ducks and thought we’d better leave and keep that happy image in our minds.
Again, today we went to the auction accompanied by a friend, whom we’d told all about little Michael. Again, with barbarian-proof cages for 4 lots of three ducks to a cage. They were calm, graceful, poised and beautiful; clean, preened and utterly trusting. Who do I see but Michael! (At first I spot the bright yellow, “NO FARMS; NO FOOD” T-shirt. We greet one another, shake hands and he tells me that our ducks, now HIS ducks, go into their own house at night on their own and that they have a little pond. Oh joy! I’m so delighted to see him and hear the news that I almost don’t notice that his Dad is with him. I introduce myself and compliment him on his fine young son and we chat about quail, chickens and muscovies for a while, until his lovely daughter Madison, pulls him away to check out some rabbits. (Michael is already a regular and is off to check under the lids of all the boxes and crates. Later we meet again at one of our crates and he asks if they’re ours. Again the studious, intent inspection.
The bidding was started with a bin of worms. This was received with laughter by everyone there, except for the bidder, who paid $6.00 for his bait ( I hope it was bait). Bids for our ducks were crazily erratic. One lot went for $6.00 per duck. The next for $15.00 per duck. The third for $13.oo per duck. But then we spied young Michael bidding on the last lot of three. We were transfixed. Oh, please let him get them, please let Michael get them. When the auctioneer nodded towards Michael and said “$11.oo”, I burst into instantaneous applause, as did Andrew and our friend. I’m not sure that anything like that has ever happened at the livestock auction but there we stood, 3 of us, applauding as loud as we could with utter delight that Michael was the winner and every face was lit up with a befuddled, uncomprehending but genuine smile and we gave Michael the thumbs up. Yes, even the rhinestone cowboy had a weak moment and turned his face towards us and gave an air-pump!