Wellness

The afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the horizon when Sarah first heard the faint, desperate peeping. She paused on her evening walk near the neighborhood pond, tilting her head to locate the sound. There, half-hidden in the tall grass near the water’s edge, was a tiny ball of golden fluff – a duckling no bigger than her palm, utterly alone.Sarah’s breath caught in her throat as she approached slowly. The duckling’s feathers were damp, its tiny body shivering despite the warm summer air. Where was its mother? The rest of the flock? The pond’s surface remained undisturbed, no anxious mother duck circling nearby.”Hey there, little one,” Sarah whispered as she knelt in the grass. To her astonishment, the duckling immediately stumbled toward her, its miniature webbed feet slipping on the wet grass. When she extended her hand, the baby bird climbed right into her palm without hesitation, its dark eyes locking onto Sarah’s face with startling intensity.A sudden realization washed over Sarah – this duckling had imprinted on her. In the absence of its real mother, the vulnerable baby had decided Sarah was its protector. The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders as the duckling nestled into the curve of her hand, its rapid heartbeat gradually slowing against her skin.Sarah knew nothing about raising ducks. Her apartment complex didn’t allow pets. She had meetings all week at work. A dozen practical reasons why she should leave the duckling here flashed through her mind. But when the tiny creature looked up at her and let out the softest, most trusting “peep,” every objection melted away. Wrapping the duckling carefully in her light jacket, Sarah cradled it close to her chest as she walked home. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of its breathing, the way it instinctively burrowed into her warmth. By the time she reached her front door, the duckling had fallen asleep in her hands, completely relaxed in her care.That night, Sarah transformed her bathroom into a makeshift duck nursery. She lined the bathtub with towels, filled a shallow dish with water, and improvised a heat lamp using a desk lamp and a red scarf. The duckling – she’d started calling it Sunny – splashed happily in its tiny pool, then toddled after Sarah whenever she tried to leave the room.”It’s just temporary,” Sarah told herself as she watched Sunny curl up to sleep in the towel nest. But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. The way Sunny’s eyes lit up when Sarah entered the room, how it followed her every movement with unwavering attention – this was no temporary arrangement. Against all logic and expectation, Sarah had become a mother duck. The reality of Sunny’s situation hit Sarah with full force the next morning when she called a local wildlife rehabilitator. “At that age, without its mother? Maybe a 10% survival rate in the wild,” the woman told her bluntly. “You did the right thing by taking it in.” Sarah looked down at Sunny, who was busy pecking at a dish of chopped hard-boiled eggs (a frantic 6am Google search had revealed proper duckling nutrition). The tiny bird’s downy feathers were fluffier today, its movements more confident. It was impossible to imagine this vulnerable creature surviving alone in the harsh world beyond Sarah’s apartment. Predators were the most obvious danger – hawks circled the pond daily, and Sarah had seen raccoons prowling at dusk. But there were subtler threats too: parasites, exposure, starvation. Ducklings needed constant care and protection in their early weeks, something only a mother or human surrogate could provide.She set up her laptop on the kitchen counter, determined to educate herself. Hours disappeared as she researched duck development, dietary needs, and habitat requirements. The more she learned, the more she understood how precarious Sunny’s survival would have been in the wild. Domestic ducks like Sunny (she’d identified the breed as a Pekin) lacked many of the survival instincts of their wild cousins.By afternoon, Sarah had transformed part of her living room into a duck nursery. A plastic kiddie pool became a swimming area, surrounded by non-slip mats. She’d ordered proper waterfowl feed online and improvised with oatmeal and vegetables until it arrived. The bathroom heat lamp was replaced with a proper brooder setup. That night, as Sarah lay awake listening to Sunny’s soft sleeping sounds from the brooder, she realized something profound. This wasn’t just about saving a life – it was about the responsibility that came with intervention. Once she’d chosen to pick up that duckling, she’d committed to seeing it through to adulthood. There was no going back. The phenomenon of being constantly shadowed by a tiny yellow duck began on Sunny’s third day in Sarah’s apartment. What started as simple curiosity had blossomed into full-fledged devotion – Sunny had officially appointed herself Sarah’s feathered familiar. Sarah first noticed the behavior while making coffee. As she moved from the refrigerator to the counter, a persistent pat-pat-pat of webbed feet followed each step. When she turned, there was Sunny, tilting her head with an expression that clearly said, “Why have you stopped moving, Mother?” It became their new normal. Cooking breakfast meant carefully shuffling to avoid tripping over an eager duckling. Working at her desk involved creating a makeshift nest from towels so Sunny could supervise properly. Even bathroom trips became a shared activity – Sunny would wait outside the door with pathetic peeps that escalated into full-blown quacks if Sarah took too long.One rainy afternoon, Sarah attempted to take a nap on the couch. She’d barely closed her eyes when she felt determined claws scrambling up the blanket. Sunny marched up her chest and settled directly on Sarah’s collarbone, tucking her beak under her own wing with a satisfied sigh. Sarah lay frozen, afraid to disturb the sleeping duck, realizing with amused resignation that she’d officially become furniture. There were challenges, of course. Sarah’s previously pristine hardwood floors now bore the evidence of duck ownership

A man kneels in a sunlit meadow, his hands gently cradling a bottle of milk as two wide-eyed fawns nuzzle against him. Their spindly legs wobble with each step, still unsteady on the soft earth. The taller one, with a coat like dappled sunlight, nudges his arm impatiently, while the smaller fawn lingers shyly behind. Behind them, a makeshift shelter of branches and blankets stands as proof of his devotion. It’s an unexpected sight—a human, alone, raising creatures meant for the wild. Yet here he is, their protector, their temporary guide between the world of humans and the forest they belong to. A plaintive wail pierced the twilight hush – not quite animal, not quite wind. Beneath the skeletal branches of a storm-toppled oak, a tawny bundle trembled. The spotted fawn’s ribs fluttered like trapped butterflies with each distressed gasp, her muzzle damp with dew and fear. No protective doe stood sentinel nearby; only lengthening shadows kept vigil. That quavering cry hooked into his chest, tugging him forward despite reason’s protests. Crouching low, he murmured nonsense syllables, watching as twin pools of liquid amber focused on his face. In that suspended heartbeat between instinct and action, choice evaporated – his hands were already moving toward her before his mind caught up. The outdoor enclosure was built with care—a space where grass still grew and the wind carried the scent of pine. The fawns explored cautiously at first, their hooves sinking into the earth as they sniffed at unfamiliar textures. He watched from a distance, giving them room to adjust. The taller one, bolder, quickly claimed a patch of clover as his own. The smaller, more skittish, stayed near the edges, her ears flicking at every rustle of leaves. It wasn’t the wilderness, but it was safe. For now, that was enough. Days blurred into weeks, and the fawns grew stronger. They raced across the enclosure, their leaps growing more confident with each passing sunset. He stood at the fence, watching as they paused at the tree line, their noses lifted to catch the scent of the forest beyond. It was a delicate balance—keeping them close enough to protect, yet letting them remember the wild that called to them. Some nights, he wondered if they dreamed of deep woods and hidden trails, places where humans didn’t follow. Dawn painted the enclosure in gold when he lifted the latch, hinges sighing as the gate swung open. The fawns stood motionless—ears like satellite dishes tuning into the jungle’s frequency: the gossip of hidden birds, leaves whispering secrets, water humming lullabies over smooth stones. Then, as if answering some ancient call, their muscles coiled. One heartbeat they were there, the next—vanished into the emerald thicket, white flags of their tails the last to dissolve. The morning air hung heavy with damp earth and crushed grass where they’d paused. This wasn’t surrender; it was the oldest kind of love—wide open hands.