 We lost Beaker today.
 She was, and I donât mean this metaphorically, an odd duck.
 A typical duck, a Gordo or Bubbles or even Quakimodo, likes to be with other ducks. There are big duck parties in the morning when fresh water is delivered. There are duck naptimes under the evergreen tree with duck-on-duck snuggling.
 Ducks have favorite ducks. Gordo has Quackimodo. Bubbles has Bubbles the second, the two most handsome, gayest ducks that have ever ducked.
 But Beaker liked to do her own thing. She was often by herself, investigating whatever caught her attention in the moment. Mostly bugs. Sometimes mud. Often nothing at all. She liked people, but I wonder if thatâs because she didnât really understand that we were different from her. To Beaker we humans were just big, less attractive ducks.
 Beaker never shouted. Unlike Quackhilda who only ever screams. She happy screams. Angry screams. Screams for joy. She is the loudest duck we have, and she wants everyone to know it.
 Beaker was the last egg to hatch this summer. She took a long time, and I was worried about her. She seemed fine as a duckling. Maybe a little nervous, definitely smaller than the others, but healthy. It was only once she lost her soft, butter yellow duckling fuzz and grew her bright white adult feathers that I realized she was different.
 A unique duck.
 A duck of distinction.
 She was small, yes, but no longer nervous. Where Bubbles one and two panicked at every overhead observation, airplane, crow, leaf blowing in the wind, Beaker was unbothered. She rarely entered the fray around the larger pool where Quackimodo, Quackhilda and Jane bobbed their heads vigorously, letting Gordo know that they were ready to get down to duck sex. Everyone stopped bobbing at Bubbles and Bubbles quickly. They only have eyes for each other.
 I was worried that we were going to have to get rid of the Bubbleses. You donât want too many drakes in a flock. Ducks, it turns out, are sex addicts. And they have corkscrew shaped penises. I donât think I need to go into detail. Letâs just say that things can get ugly with too many drakes or too few hens.
 But even with Beakerâs total disinterest in carnal duck love, the flock is fine. Gordo is the only drake interested in the hens. Bubbles one has Bubbles two and they are desperate for Gordo to love them as well.
 Thatâs all to say that when Beaker got her adult feathers, it was clear she was an odd duck. Sheâs got a tiny head. Not that any ducks have huge heads. They are bird brained after all, but Beaker was the littlest head among little heads. Distractable. A loner. She liked to hang out with Jake, my husband, not a duck, while he mowed the lawn, or ran loud power tools.
 She would object to going to bed long after all the other ducks were tucked into the coop for the night. Preferring a little personal time with whoever came out to shut the door against evening predators.
 Beaker liked to dunk her entire head in a puddle, in search of buried worms, and wear her mud hat for the day. She was a dirty duck.
 Maybe because she was uninterested in duck sex, she was also uninterested in laying eggs. Quackimodo and Jane lay eggs every day. Quackhilda, the screamer, is currently molting, but once sheâs all feathered up again, sheâll be back to her champion egg laying as well. Beaker couldnât be bothered with something like eggs. She was a free bird. Untethered.
 Weâve lost a number of ducks over the years. But itâs been a long time. I had started to think that weâd solved the puzzle of duck safety, even in the deep of winter where every carnivore for miles around can smell our ducks. They must look delicious to foxes, to the coyotes I hear call to each other at night, to the bobcat I see wander through the field near our house, to the fisher cat that everyone in town assures me is around, to the weasel that killed all 14 of my friendâs chickens in a bloody rage.
 My flock are Pekins. Lovely and white. Friendly and chatty. If you say, âHey ducks!â to them, they answer âQUACKQUACKQUACKâ right back (though thatâs mostly Quackhilda). But Pekins canât fly. So, my beautiful, slow, flightless, foolish, defenseless ducks must look like the very best thing in the world to hungry carnivores. Itâs February, and duck is delicious.
 We didnât crack the code. Obviously.
 Hawks donât care about our fence. Or our predator deterrent balloon that we dutifully hang in the tree over the duck pen. They donât care about the owl statue that hoots if you get too close. They donât care that we shoot pellets at them with a slingshot when they come flapping around.
 I found Beakerâs mauled carcass this afternoon.
 You might think itâs nothing to lose a duck. No one says that ducks are manâs best friend. No one makes posters about duck ladies for Harris.
 Itâs okay.
 You didnât know Beaker, an odd duck.