One Sunday afternoon in early April, my wife and I were driving through Ahwatukee and were stopped at the intersection of Elliot Road and 44th Street. As we waited at the red light, I spotted a mother Mallard duck leading eight tiny ducklings across Elliot Road. Just then a car sped through, clipping the mother duck. She collapsed in the road, alive but in bad shape, her ducklings scattering like spilled marbles across the lanes of traffic. I leapt from the car, heart racing, waving at drivers who honked as if I’d lost it. Another car pulled over, and a couple stepped out, offering a cardboard box from their trunk but seeming unsure, like they wanted no part of the mess as they quickly departed the scene. I grabbed the box and darted around, scooping up the eight ducklings and their struggling mother, their faint peeps cutting through the noise of the traffic.
My wife and I rushed to Liberty Wildlife Rescue, but the mother didn’t make it, passing quietly in the cardboard box on the way. The staff turned away the ducklings, citing bird flu concerns. An utter failure on behalf of an organization that calls itself a rescue and rehab facility.
With no other choice, I brought the young family home. I set up a large, mesh, dog kennel with a heat lamp to keep them cozy while they were in the brooding stage, then I bought a chicken coop from Tractor Supply to house them safely in my backyard. And for the next eight weeks, I played duck dad, watching those fragile, little creatures grow into sturdy juveniles, their antics a daily reminder of life’s small wonders.
On May 20, 2025, when the ducklings had reached juvenile status, I drove the gang of young ducks thirteen miles to Veterans Oasis Park in Chandler, where ponds and a thriving waterfowl community promised a safe haven with few predators. Releasing them was difficult, it felt like letting go of a piece of myself, hoping they’d find their place.
Then, on June 24, 2025, I walked into my backyard and froze—six juvenile ducks were milling around my pool, likely the ones I’d raised…or so I’d like to believe. It was as if they’d trekked back across the desert, joining the strange duck legacy of my backyard. From those early Mallard visitors to this unexpected reunion, that day at the intersection pulled me deeper into a story where ducks, somehow, keep choosing me.
