Well. Joe and I spent April in England visiting family, enjoying the lush spring, and renewing friendships. Home again, we've discovered that a pair of mallards has moved into the main garden. They swim happily in my big, rain-filled pool, pooping regularly to season it. Ugh.
Romeo's pleased with his Juliet, and she with him; they're rarely more than a foot apart. They wander happily through the rapidly growing beds, nibbling greenery, snapping up foolish slugs and bugs, and planning a family. Horrified, I keep peeking under the big pseudo-cypress, praying she hasn't laid eggs under its thick shelter. Mallard families can be large; imagine 10 babies zipping around!
Surely these ducks aren't that dim; Cat would dispatch eggs and infants quicker than instantly.
The lovebirds are getting far too comfortable. They quack endearments; the male lays his shining head on her back, and the two stand quietly in the sun, thoroughly enjoying each other's company.
He has a favorite bed, right in the middle of the lush patch of woolly thyme next to the pool. Ducks have a poor reputation for minding their manners when faced with its soft charms. So far, though, Romeo's refrained from ruining it.
Nevertheless, yesterday I marched right up to him, reduced myself to his level and announced that I would NOT tolerate any vandalism; if he pecked just once at my thyme, both were dinner.
There we were, beak to nose, inches apart. He heard me out, quacked quietly, rearranged his feathers, and simply went to sleep.
You'd think he'd be intimidated! I'd threatened to wring his gorgeous neck, pop him into a hot oven and roast him for dinner! I'd hollered that proper ducks should be down by the river. I'd warned him that drinking that, er, "rich" water would make them sick, impotent or worse. Nada. My declaration of fowl play was clearly water off his back. Disgusted, all I could do was to stalk off, muttering bird-brained insults.
I wish they'd get gone! I have work to do. I should drain and scrub the pool. (But if I do, they'll fowl it!) I must chainsaw the huge miscanthus grasses, redo the drip irrigation, transplant and clean the winter-worn beds. But I'm constantly tripping over lovesick ducks.
Jet lag wears me out. I need five days to readjust to Michigan time; meanwhile, I feel like dog food. Clearly, these orange-footed featherheads won't budge. There's nothing I can do without courting a headache.
Yesterday I wearily plopped down on the big bench for a brief rest -- and woke up 30 minutes later to find R and J beaking my cargo pants, trying to dislodge a button. No sense sharpening my fangs. They know I don't have any.
Where IS that darn cat? One glimpse of him would surely send them packing. But he seems to have vanished.
After naps, Juliet sometimes follows me around, watching me work. She'll offer an occasional nasal comment or suggestion, which I studiously ignore.
But mostly, they have eyes only for each other. She eggs him on all the time; it's hard to concentrate with all that lovemaking going on. Feathers are rumpled, orange feet flap, and ecstatic quacks ring through this proper Victorian garden. Humph...
Nothing ruffles their feathers afterward. The chainsaw's roar is ignored, noisy workmen tweaking my giant tulip tree put them to sleep, and all my vigorous digging and wheelbarrowing only makes them yawn. Passion wears them out.
But that's love. I'm just background noise. It's disconcerting to be so thoroughly dismissed.
Good thing I have a strong ego.
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at http://blogs.record-eagle.com.
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