There were three of them; Lucy, Jeremiah, and Bill. Now there are none. She sits in the mud of her back garden, looking at the open door of the coup, rain tickling her skin. No sign of a struggle. No ruffled feathers or spatted blood. Not a fox then, but a far more nefarious predator; a person.
Why would anyone steal a duck? Sure, they looked pretty. Dappled brown and white plumage. Yellow bills. Orange feet. But they had no real monetary value. You could pick up a trio, like she had, for fifty quid. So why?
The real value lost here were the memories. Their odd quirks of personality, known only to her. The companionship too. Now it was just here and an empty house. So she sits, dejected, in the cold, wet earth, wondering why life has to be so random and cruel.
Paddy Dobson
28th September 2020