I was really looking forward to a quiet weekend. Garden work, a cup of coffee, maybe some reading. You know — that kind of peaceful Sunday that exists mostly in imagination.
And then they brought a duckling.
A wild mallard baby, found in a nearby village. Most likely lost his mom. He was tiny, alone, and clearly had no idea what was supposed to happen next.
Well. Neither did I, to be honest. I've raised a lot of animals over the years — dogs, birds, chickens, the occasional crow — but a wild duckling is a whole different story. They are incredibly fragile in the first days. No mother means no warmth, no guidance, no waterproofing — yes, baby ducks actually need their mother's oils to stay dry. Without her, even water can become dangerous.
So the quiet Sunday turned into something else entirely. Finding the right container. Getting the temperature right. Figuring out what a day-old wild duckling is actually supposed to eat. Making sure he's warm but not too warm. Watching him like a hawk — or rather, trying not to watch him like a hawk, because stress is also bad for them.
And in between all of this — this photo happened. His first little swim in a metal bowl. He floated, he paddled, he looked around with that expression that said: okay, this will do for now.
I don't know yet how this story ends. Wild birds are always a question mark. But right now he is warm, he is fed, and he is Hope it will be this way.
That's enough for today 🐥
