I received a text from my 23 year old son early this morning, who was on his way to work:
“Better call someone. A momma duck lost her babies down a drain on the corner of N * Street and G * Ave. I can hear the babies from the drain but don’t know how to get them out. I walked right by the mom.”
My heart dropped. Babies in a drain? Another duck disaster in the making.
I dialed Fish, Wildlife, and Parks. Although after hours, I was hopeful their answering system had a forwarding service for calls of this nature. No such luck. With two plus hours to spare until office opening time, I suspected the ducklings couldn’t all survive in a drain waiting it out for FWP.
So, I did the only thing I knew. I broke down in front of my husband and bawled. Snotted all over my shirt until Jason ran out of the house and laid rubber backing out of the driveway.
Okay. That’s not true. Jason doesn’t care if I bawl. He cares about what’s for supper.
I did alert him to the ducklings being incarcerated in the drain; their momma fretting on the sidewalk, herself free and unconfined-yet completely hopeless to the situation. I asked him his opinion on what else I should do. Can I go down there and hook a rope to the drain bars and to the back of my car? Can I try to pry the drain open with a crow bar? Can I grease the babies all up with Crisco and try to slide them all through? None of these really sounded practical. Or legal. Or safe.
But fun and heroic? Uh, heck yes.
I was still brainstorming, imagining myself dressed in a red cape with fabulous golden locks of hair, saving fowl all across our great little city when Jason left to get on the road for a business trip. About a half hour passed. I was still googling “Ways to save babies from drains” and having really no luck whatsoever. That’s when I received this on my phone:
along with this text: “handled.”
My husband can have whatever he wants for supper.
I know I can handle that.