And Then There Were Seven...

Well, this is a sad post to make. Yesterday morning while gathering eggs we couldn't find number eight. Which happens, so we didn't worry too much. We thought someone found a very clever new nesting spot and was well hidden from egg-eating eyes. I got home from work not thinking of it, hearing Steve mowing the lawn by the pond. By and by, I realized the mower was off and there was no accompanying "clank!" that would indicate a stop in the great American past time. The silence lingered, so I went down to find out what it was. Was it a new animal sighting? A heron amidst the ducks? The kingfisher chattering around chased by an oriole? A snapping turtle out of water in all its algae-ed glory? It was eerily quiet and I found Steve at Duck Beach. He said he found number eight. She was badly mangled; her leg had been severely mauled. Steve had to do the brave thing and send her to her maker. This is life and death on the farm. We lost a good duck.