It’s spring, the season of rebirth, and I drive toward Portage’s Tractor Supply with a longing heart. I picture the fluffy ducklings that they sell. I imagine holding them, listening to their soft peeps, and then setting them down so I can enjoy their antics.

I could just pull in and take a quick peek. 

I switch on the blinker. Ducklings would mean I’d need to get a duck-sitter for when we go to Door County in a few weeks, but I could handle that. Ducklings would mean building a pen, providing water, food, and shelter. Expense and work, but I’d have the joy of owning ducks again. I turn into the parking lot.

I figure out I’ll just need to dig out the duck crate again. My husband rigged it so it hooks onto the trailer hitch and the ducks can ride in comfort when we take them to our cabin. (He devised this after we realized that a four-hour drive with adolescent ducks can get super stinky.) I think back to the laugh we had after stopping for gas. We were also pulling a boat at that time, and the duck crate was inside it. A man filling his car caught sight of them and chuckled. “I have to ask,” he began, “are the ducks your bait or your fishing buddies?”

They were definitely our buddies. Our pets liked to kayak with us, and if they got tired, they’d jump on the back to get a free ride. They would also swim with us and the grandkids, diving and splashing for the sheer joy of it. We would snorkel together, looking for fish or painted turtles. I liked to dive deep enough to watch their webbed feet paddle along like a riverboat.

Then there was the time my son-in-law, Jeremy, was training for a triathlon and wanted to swim across the lake. A duck named Happy Feet joined him. When the duck got ahead of him, Jeremy would swim faster. The memory makes me smile.

I watch a customer walking briskly toward the entrance. I wonder if the store has runner ducks. I grab my purse. These comical-looking ducks resembling bowling pins have definite personalities and can run fast.  One year, when we had three runner ducks, our granddaughters, age 8 and 10, challenged them to a race. The five of them ran down a hill. Feathers flew, and the girls squealed with delight. So much fun! I open the door and head to the entrance, confident I’m making the right decision.

I slow my steps and sigh heavily. I have to remember the heartache, too. There was the scary time when my husband and I watched a snapping turtle grab a duck by the feet and pull it under. My husband ran into the lake, shoes and all, and grasped the duck by the neck, the only part still above the water. He pulled it up, and the turtle let go. The duck survived, but it was awful to see that torn foot.

I pass a parked car, and a fierce-looking dog barks viciously at me. All my muscles tense up. I flash back to that dreadful Memorial Day when a red fox scaled the ducks’ fence. The crows alerted me with their calls, but by the time I ran out, it had killed five of the seven ducks. Did I want to go through that again?

The dog’s insistent, high-pitched alarm bark makes me stop. I force myself to turn around. I take several steps back toward my car before I pause. Just one more look. I swivel back and stare at the entrance. I’m making the right decision, but still… Still…