Grief arrived quietly and then all at once. One morning our garden felt too still, too empty, and far too quiet without the soft, constant presence of our drake Petterson. A marten had come in the night and changed everything. After ten years with Indian runner ducks, you might think we would be used to the unpredictable rhythms of nature. We are not. These animals are not just part of the garden. They are part of us.
And yet, nature does not pause for long. Our female Henrietta, determined and astonishingly composed, continued to sit on her eggs. Day after day she held her ground, tucked into her nest with a focus that felt almost heroic. And then, one morning, the stillness broke in the most delightful way. Eight tiny ducklings. Eight! The garden filled with movement again, with peeping sounds, with life.
Some already out, some still in the egg!
Watching a mother duck raise her young is like being given a backstage pass to something ancient and beautifully efficient. There is no manual, no hesitation, no confusion. She simply knows. She gathers them with soft calls that somehow manage to be both strict and comforting. She teaches them where to find food by example. She pecks, they peck. She pauses, they pause. One wanders off, she calls, and suddenly it is sprinting back like a tiny feathered rocket.
Indian runner ducks are fascinating creatures even without the drama of life events. They are known for their upright posture, almost like little penguins on a mission. Instead of waddling heavily, they move quickly and purposefully, often in a line that looks suspiciously organized for birds. They are excellent foragers and are famous among gardeners for their appetite for slugs and insects. In a world where many solutions come in plastic bottles, these ducks are a sustainable, charming alternative.
A safety net during the first days because crows and magpies are highly interested predators.
Our garden is their kingdom, and I like to think it is a good one. It is not a manicured show garden. It is a living space. There are wild corners and intentional chaos. Flowering strips stretch along the edges where the grass is never cut. Buttercups and daisies grow freely. Bees hum. Beetles crawl. Something is always buzzing, always blooming, always happening.
And now, through this miniature jungle, eight ducklings wobble into existence.
Can you spot them?
They do not walk so much as attempt walking. They stumble over uneven ground, trip over their own enthusiasm, and occasionally sit down mid journey as if to reconsider their life choices. Then, without warning, they sprint. Full speed. No direction. Just pure joy.
Seeing them move through a sea of buttercups and daisies is almost too much to process. Their tiny bodies disappear between the flowers and then pop up again like animated dandelion seeds. Sometimes they chase insects with an intensity that seems wildly disproportionate to their size. Sometimes they just lie down in the sun, tiny chests rising and falling, completely at peace.
Their mother remains alert at all times. She is both gentle and firm. When it is time to rest, she gathers them. When it is time to move, she leads. When one lags behind, her call changes ever so slightly. It becomes sharper, more insistent. And somehow the message gets through immediately. It is communication without confusion, without delay.
One of the most impressive moments is when she decides they are ready for water. Not too early. Not too late. She leads them carefully, watching every step. Ducklings can swim instinctively, but they still rely on their mother for safety and timing. The first entry into water is cautious, then suddenly chaotic. Tiny splashes everywhere. Little heads dipping under. Absolute delight.
Bath time!
Indian runner ducks are not strong fliers, which makes them ideal for a garden like ours. They stay close, grounded, present. They are also incredibly social animals. Keeping them in groups is essential, and seeing this new generation grow together is a reminder of how deeply they rely on one another.
There is also something quietly powerful about raising ducks in a garden designed for biodiversity. The flowering strips are not just pretty. They support pollinators, improve soil health, and create a balanced ecosystem. The ducks contribute in their own way by controlling pests naturally. It is a small system, but it works. No chemicals. No artificial shortcuts. Just cooperation between plants, insects, and animals.
Beautiful pieces of nature. And a dog.
And in the middle of it all, eight ducklings discovering the world.
They learn fast. Yesterday they were unsure of every step. Today they are already more confident. They recognize the good feeding spots. They understand their mother’s calls more quickly. They move as a group more often than not. It is like watching evolution in fast forward, condensed into days instead of centuries.
There are moments of pure comedy as well. A duckling trying to catch a fly that is clearly out of reach. Another attempting to climb a small bump in the ground as if it were a mountain. One deciding that the best place to rest is directly in the path of its siblings. Chaos follows. Always.
But underneath the humor is something deeper. A quiet resilience. Life continuing, adapting, insisting on moving forward.
Losing our drake was painful. There is no way around that. But watching this mother raise her eight ducklings has brought a different kind of emotion into the garden. Not a replacement. Nothing replaces what was lost. But a continuation. A reminder that even after disruption, there can be growth, movement, and unexpected beauty.
And so the garden is loud again. Not with the deep presence we once had, but with something lighter, faster, and undeniably adorable.
Eight tiny reasons to smile, sprinting through buttercups, chasing insects, and learning the world one wobbly step at a time.