Oh shame, what a good mother archosaur, can you imagine what you must look like to her? A very scary elongated primate with a very big brain (in this case) balanced on a skinny neck , limbs splayed from shoulders and long stilts from hips advancing. (:
She was probably hearing the opening music from Star wars.
Obviously thinking of the future little fluff balls. I hope some hatch that would be magic.
During my halcyon, euphoric and just sometimes also plain mindless days (ironically) being a student at Uni I found I was living one street away from a pet shop. They got ducklings and I couldn’t pass up on such a thing so close to home.
I bought three and loved and studied them, marvelling at the fact that they so readily imprinted on me, a matter of hours. So strong I had to wrap them in a towel and take them to bed with me the very first night as they refused to sleep alone in a box next to my bed.
I lived with a few other carefully selected (equally eccentric) students in a lovely white row of Edwardian houses overlooking Kensington Gardens. One was a psychology student who took notes, and who was needless to say very instrumental in me buying the little miracles in the first place. She took notes when ever we were in conversation ducks or not, one of the reasons besides instant oxytocin that she had been allowed to move in. I was flattered to be of such interest.
The house was more or less intact as it had always been through numerous generations, the ducklings loved the huge deep bath and wide passages to race after me. There was also a veranda over the front door where my room was. So after a week of being house bound with ducklings, beside the odd walk to the park with them, I decided to make them a large nest on the veranda so I could go out shopping for supplies. I ordered a bail of hay from Harrods which arrived at my insistance the same day so I spread it out thickly and set up the ducklings on this promising I wouldn’t be long. I closed the window and off I set.
No sooner had I hit the pavement when it started raining ducklings. Somehow they had caught wind of me leaving either it was my voice loudly discussing something with someone or my scent but they scrambled up over the wire netting and launched themselves into the air one by one.
I managed to catch one but missed the other two with horribly sad results. It was so bad that the reflex art of neck wringing learnt from collecting pigeon squabs for dinner with my uncle in Mallorca kicked in instantly. Only the one survived intact and with heavy heart I took it to the London zoo who managed to find it a good home with their lot.
Ducklings no matter how lovely belong with their mothers. );