When I first found them, they were scattered across the field, huddled in little piles for warmth in the pouring rains and gusting winds of hurricane Frances. We tried to reunite them with their mother, but she didn't take any interest in them and they were too exhausted to move. So I took all six ducklings in a fold of my shirt and carried them inside our shelter where it was warm. I dried them off and settled them down into a little plastic garbage can, and fed them some moist-ened cracker crumbs from our storm supply. After the hurricane was over, the mom was nowhere to be found and there was nothing else to do but take them home. Unfortunately the exertion was too much for the smallest one, Epsy, and he didn't make it. I had the others for weeks. They grew and grew, until I had to put them outside. They had a pen but prefered to run loose in the yard and swim in their little pool. Then one day, our neighbor wasn't watching his dog well and she wandered into our yard and killed Whitney. A couple of weeks after that, a virus swept through my small flock killing Corduroy, Penelope, and Lincoln. Only Wesley survived. He grew to adulthood and we recently released him in a pond at a preserve with four other muscovies who accepted him warmly. Having so many die after working so hard to raise them was tough, but their memory will always live on in my heart. And it's nice to think that somewhere out there, Wesley's running around with his new friends, and who knows - if he likes one of those girls, there might be little Wesleys next spring!