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of anywhere between five and nine uninterrupted quacks coming on the heels of each other. The first quack is loud, and expressed with reckless abandon. It is followed by other less urgent quacks which come together to form nature's most hilarious decrescendo. Once the lead duck has had her say, any shyer ducks in attendance will mosey their way over as well.

When it's time to leave, the lead duck usually gives an encore performance of her earlier song. I made the mistake of imitating her call after the ducks had already returned to the river one afternoon. She called, they flew, they landed, I called. A large percentage of the ducks came frantically flying back to me. I laughed and, when they noticed there was no more free food to be had, some flew back to the river.

Heading home, I walked back toward the street. A few minutes into my journey I looked back and observed between fifteen and twenty ducks following me gaily toward the local convenience store. What resulted was a hilarious and futile attempt by me to lead them back to their leader. Eventually I had to dive behind a large snowbank and wait for them to forget I had been there. I have since learned to respect the authority of Her Highness the Lead Duck.

Although I am certainly no biologist or zoologist, I feel I've spent enough time around ducks to feel comfortable sitting among them while feeding them. They are unlike geese: They may surround you if they are very hungry, but they will not try to nip off your hands or dig through your pockets when you stop feeding them. On one particularly cold day, a male duck nestled down on my shoe to have a front row seat for the food, like a little kid nosing his or her way to the front of a parade crowd in order to be closest to Santa when the candy came flying. Another duck, a small female, decided to burrow into the snow between my feet (all of about 5 inches of space) to shelter herself from the cold wind.

Although this article has been mostly personal anecdote, which is really looked down upon by scientists, I feel it has some value. Many scientists and biologists get their information from textbooks, journals, and sometimes by treating injured wildlife. Biologists like to tell people that the average person cannot know what an animal is feeling, because either a.) the animal has no emotions or b.) its actions can only ever be explained by instinct and c.) that humans fall into the trap of anthropomorphizing animals, which is a fancy way of saying we tend to look for human traits in animals in order to identify with them. I've had the wonderful chance to interact with these creatures on a regular basis, and I most likely have imagined they can relate to me, recognize me, and that they get something out of the interaction besides just food. Maybe I'm just being silly. But does it really matter?

Learn more about this author, Lindsey Feldman.
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