Of Black Eggs, Sick Ducks, and the Quiet Work of Care

A variety of duck eggs in a carton, highlighted by one unique black egg among the rest, set against a colorful, textured counter top.

The past couple of weeks have been full — the kind of full that feels both expansive and a little overwhelming. Most of it, as usual, has revolved around the ducks.

It started with something unexpected and a little magical.

We have one duck — Rufio — who began laying black eggs.

Not dark brown. Not speckled. Truly black.

At first glance, they almost don’t look real. Tucked into the yard, they disappear easily into the soil and shadows, ranging from deep charcoal to soft gray depending on the day. The inside is no different than any other egg — the magic lives entirely in the shell and its bloom, that natural protective coating.

This trait comes from Indian Runner and Cayuga ducks, a small genetic thread that feels like a quiet inheritance. It makes each egg feel a little like a secret — something you have to slow down and really look for.

And then, just as quickly as that small wonder arrived, things shifted.

When the Flock Falters

A vibrant purple iris in full bloom stands gracefully amidst lush greenery, its delicate petals and intricate patterns catching the eye.

Shortly after discovering Rufio’s eggs, we started noticing signs of illness in the flock.

We’re not new to this. Over the years, we’ve raised ducks, chickens, and turkeys, and illness is part of that reality. But knowing something doesn’t necessarily make it easier when it happens.

It began with Penelope and Rufio — both showing signs of sour crop or impacted crop.

The crop, for those unfamiliar, is part of a bird’s digestive system — a temporary holding space where food softens before moving through the rest of the body. When it doesn’t empty properly, food can build up and begin to ferment, leading to sour crop — essentially a yeast infection. Impacted crop, on the other hand, is a physical blockage.

Different causes. Same urgency. Same treatment.

Isolation.

Each duck was moved into a small, dark, quiet space — warm, contained, and still. No food, only water, and time. We added apple cider vinegar for sour crop, along with nutritional yeast and VetRx (an immune support supplement) to support their immune systems.

And then we waited.

That waiting space is always the hardest. There are only two outcomes in these moments, and both are deeply tangible.

Either you begin preparing a place in the compost — returning a body to the land that sustained it — or you open the door to one very determined bird ready to get back to life.

Penelope was ready by morning. Bright-eyed, impatient, completely unwilling to stay contained any longer.

Rufio followed shortly after.

Relief came in waves — cautious, but real.

The Small Details That Matter

In a large container filled with a nutritious mix of grains and seeds, a scoop is ready to be used for duck feed.

For a brief moment, it felt like we were in the clear.

When the second duck showed the same symptoms.

That’s when we started looking closer.

It turned out that a recent bag of feed — purchased from a newly opened location closer to home — wasn’t what we thought it was. Instead of a complete feed, it was more like a snack mix, missing key nutrients.

It’s such a small shift, but one with real consequences.

After some research, the solution was simple and thankfully within reach: nutritional yeast and grit. While they already had access to limestone grit, they were missing calcium typically provided by oyster shells.

The solution? Their own eggshells, returned to them.

Within days, things began to stabilize. The flock regained energy. The symptoms faded.

Balance, restored — or so we thought.

The Moment Everything Changes

Elderberry plant displaying its dark, lace-like leaves accented with clusters of delicate, pale pink flowers.

One afternoon, I came home to five ducks eagerly waiting for snacks.

Five.

There should have been six.

Where one duck is, all ducks are. Always.

I set down my things, handed out the head of lettuce I’d brought home, and went looking for Jackie Sparrow.

I found her under an elderberry tree.

Panting. Still. One eye foamy.

That moment — the drop in your stomach, the immediate rush of worst-case scenarios — it never gets easier.

Respiratory illness.

And in the back of my mind, the heavier thought: avian flu, which had been spreading through wild bird populations in our area.

If it were that, the implications were devastating.

But there are other possibilities — infection, irritation, injury, parasites.

So we moved quickly.

Isolation. Clean space. Disinfect everything.

Jackie fought being picked up, as she always does, but settled once she realized resistance wasn’t going to help. She tolerated treatment surprisingly well, then rested.

And again, we waited.

When It Spreads

The cozy interior of the Duck Hut, complete with wood shavings on the floor, storage containers, and natural light filtering through frosted windows.

That evening, just as I tried to sit and take in the last light of the day, Penelope began to show symptoms again.

Lethargy. Sneezing.

Two ducks, one day.

The rhythm of the evening shifted instantly into action. Another isolation space. More cleaning. Fresh water with immune support. Early bedtime for the flock — much to their disapproval.

There’s a certain intensity in those moments — moving quickly, making decisions, doing what you can while knowing so much is out of your hands.

Morning came, and it wasn’t the hopeful scene we had imagined.

Jackie had made a mess of her enclosure overnight — a sign her body was actively fighting something. When I opened the door, she lunged at me with full force.

Alive. Angry. Strong.

It was exactly what I needed to see.

She returned to the flock and promptly climbed onto the compost pile, where she rested for a few hours — drawn, as they often are, to the warmth of decomposition.

By late morning, she was herself again.

Though she has not forgiven us for the experience. Not even a little.

She now avoids us entirely — keeping her distance, choosing autonomy over interaction. And honestly, as long as she’s healthy, that’s enough.

A Slower Recovery

Comfrey in full bloom, showcasing clusters of vibrant purple flowers amidst lush green foliage on a cloudy day.

Penelope took longer.

She spent nearly a full day in isolation — quiet, warm, with soft music playing in the background while I moved through small tasks around the house.

There was something strangely peaceful about it. A pause within the chaos.

Eventually, she began to stir — soft quacks, small movements, the unmistakable signal that she was ready to return.

Since then, the flock has stabilized. Healthy. Active. The crisis, for now, is behind us.

Life Returns to Play

A duck explores a vibrant farmyard surrounded by wooden pallets, chopped logs, and rustic fencing, under the shade of tall trees.

Healthy ducks, it turns out, are mischievous ducks.

And their current favorite pastime is bothering the cats.

Raddimus is unbothered. This is his home, and he carries himself accordingly.

Slater, on the other hand, is a different story.

He’s wary of them — understandably — and they know it. They’ve taken to bullying him away from his food, to the point that we’ve had to elevate his meals onto a table where they can’t reach.

Despite this, Slater remains endlessly joyful.

He loves the sun more than anything — stretching out, soaking in warmth, fully at peace.

Unfortunately, the ducks also love the sun.

And they are not interested in sharing.

He tries, often, to join them. To lay beside them in the warmth. Each time, they run him off.

Eventually, a compromise was reached — not through agreement, but through persistence.

If the ducks aren’t using a sunny spot, Slater is allowed to borrow it.

It took time, but the balance settled in.

Slater’s Story

Slater, our cat, relaxing in a cozy blue plaid blanket, with his striking eyes full of curiosity and calm.

Slater’s presence here is something of a miracle.

He was brought to us by another feral cat — Sid — after what we can only describe as a near-fatal encounter.

When we first saw him, he was barely holding on. Emaciated. Injured. One eye permanently altered, as though the iris had been stirred with a toothpick.

We later learned he had likely been picked up by a bird of prey and dropped from a significant height.

And still, he made it here.

Sid stayed nearby for weeks, watching, ensuring Slater ate, ensuring he survived.

Over time, we gained his trust. Got him to the vet. Helped him heal.

Now, he is vibrant. Playful. Full of life.

He still carries his past — fear of being lifted, sensitivity around his scars — but he is here. Safe.

And that is everything.

Signs of Spring

A serene view of wetlands with lush greenery and still waters, under a dramatic sky with rays of sunlight piercing through the clouds.

Beyond the ducks and cats, the rest of the yard is waking up too.

The chickadees have begun building their nest.

First twigs. Then moss. Then a soft white fluff — likely cattail or dandelion — carefully layered into the birdhouse.

Now, we wait.

I find myself spending more time in the garden again, and they don’t seem to mind my presence. They move around me easily, perching nearby, continuing their work without alarm.

It feels like a quiet kind of trust.

A shared space.

The Ongoing Rhythm

The sky over a peaceful farm is lit up by the golden rays of sunset, creating silhouettes against the vibrant horizon.

There’s a rhythm returning now.

Ducks recovering. Compost turning. Seeds going in. Birds nesting.

It hasn’t been easy these past couple of weeks. There’s been stress, uncertainty, and more than a few moments of wondering how things would turn out.

But this is part of it.

Care isn’t just the peaceful moments — it’s the hard ones too. The waiting. The problem-solving. The showing up again and again, even when the outcome is unclear.

And in between all of that, there are black eggs hidden in the garden. Ducks quacking with excitement. A cat stretching in the sun.

Small, steady reminders that life continues — messy, beautiful, and deeply interconnected.