So, we got a duck.

She’s a domestic mallard—larger than her wild brethern, bred not to fly. Her name is Regina. It was going to be Reggie until her feathers all came in brown. My wife calls her “Regilicous.” I pretty much just call her “duck.” 

I’d never wanted a duck. It was our son’s idea. Sam is 17—the last kid at home. He loves animals; we’ve got two dogs, a cat and a large gray fuzzball of a rabbit named Harrison that roams our yard. But a duck? I’m not sure why Sam set his mind on one, other than he can be a an odd duck himself sometimes.

So, we got a duck. But not before learning about them. Having a duck is not something you just go do, unless you’re Old MacDonald and you have a farm. We have a backyard. But it’s sizable, and we found we could meet city regulations for keeping domesticated fowl. We read up about ducks. We asked around and got a lot of helpful advice, which mostly pertained to poop. Apparently, without going into detail, birds have no control over that, and can’t be potty-trained. With a duck, they all noted, it would be wherever, whenever. They were right.

Then we found out about duck diapers. 

Yes, those are a thing. 

But don’t worry; we were as appalled as you to learn they exist. If going pantsless was good enough for Daffy or Donald, it was going to be good enough for our duck. And the fact is, unless the duck is in the house (which is never since the day she did that on our couch), it isn’t a problem. 

 So now our backyard has a duck. And you know what? We love her. She waddles around with her chest puffed out and head held high with a sort of regal duck dignity, and it just makes you smile. She follows us like a curious web-footed toddler, and has developed a kinship with our dogs and even our cat, whom we’ve caught grooming her (Sam suggests he may actually be tasting her, but we choose not to believe that). Being a duck, Regina does occasionally cut loose with a brief series of startlingly loud quacks that sound not unlike the ragged smoker’s cackle of my late Aunt Gladys. But since our neighbors haven’t broken out any shotguns yet, I’m assuming it’s too brief and infrequent to be annoying. When she is content, which is often, she sings to herself with gentle little squeaks and chirps.

She isn’t just ornamental, either: She’s been great for our plants because she’s developed a sweet tooth for snails and slugs. Plus, that duck poop? We filter it from the small pond we dug for her (yes, we dug her a pond) and it is the Best. Fertilizer. Ever. Seriously. This year’s zuchinni plants look like something out of Jurassic Park.

I never thought I’d get a duck, and I certainly never thought I would like owning a duck. But I did, and I do. And maybe this is why: Two of our kids are already out of the house. Sam, even though Regina was his idea, will be off to college next year at this time. Maybe the duck, along with the rest of our menagerie, are there to fill the void that’s being left behind by life’s relentless forward progress. 

If so, I kind of like the idea of combating empty-nester syndrome with an actual bird.

So, yeah. We got a duck.

By Tom Mailey // Photos courtesy of Tom Mailey.

Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1, email him at [email protected], or follow him on Twitter @kncitom.