They say birds of a feather flock together and while that may be true most of the time, I have proof it is not true all the time. Our 12-year-old grandson and a jet-black Cayuga duck sitting beside him, with its long neck and head resting on the boy’s shoulder, have been flocking together for weeks.

The boy says it all began because the duck’s mother did not get moody. He actually said broody, but I thought he said moody, which made no sense because every mother is capable of moody.

Apparently, the momma duck did not experience a hormone surge prompting her to get all broody, fuss with the nest, sit on the egg and warn encroaching intruders by quacking and hissing.

The boy took the lonely pale gray egg with black markings inside the house and made a cozy nest for it in an incubator. He misted the egg with water at regular intervals, knowing the egg would have been damp from the mother duck returning from a swim in the pond.

Days passed, weeks passed and the egg began to crack. With a little help, the duckling hatched. When the duckling was big enough to fit in the boy’s cupped hands, he took it outside to a nest made with pine shavings. He tucked the duckling in the nest under a heat lamp, hoping his fowl friend would integrate with new feathered friends.

Didn’t happen. “The other ducks wanted nothing to do with him,” he says. The duck bobs wildly in agreement, quacks twice and nibbles the boy’s ear lobe.

The duck did integrate eventually, but with the boy, not the other ducks. The new webbed-foot companion and constant shadow was named “Mr. Drake.”

“How did you know the duck was a him?”

“By his voice. He had a raspy voice. Only drakes have raspy voices.”

Mr. Drake takes four swift jabs at the boy’s neck.

“Does that hurt?” I ask.

“Not really,” he says with a grin.

Mr. Drake glares at me and lets out a nasty, angry quack.

Mr. Drake follows the boy whenever he comes outside. The boy walks up the hill; Mr. Drake walks up the hill. The boy pushes the raft into the pond; Mr. Drake pushes into the pond and swims alongside.

The boy shoves a kayak into the pond, climbs in and lifts Mr. Drake onto his lap. The two silently glide, sending waves gently rippling through the water. The green sheen on the duck’s neck shimmers in the dappled sunlight. The quiet is periodically pierced by a deep, throaty quack.

“Does Mr. Drake prefer the kayak over swimming alongside the raft?”

“I think so,” the boy says. “But a lot of times he jumps out of the kayak and swims alongside.”

“Does Mr. Drake ever, well, you know, in your lap?”

The boy just chuckles. There are some things you simply don’t tell Grandma.

And Grandma thanks you.

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