Lui

Lui was the way I always said her name was spelled, even though I knew it was wrong. My mom thought it was silly - it was supposed to be spelled Louis. That’s how it was spelled in The Trumpet of the Swan, the book that our Lui was named for. But then again, our Lui was a duck, and E.B. White’s Louis was a massive swan. 

There had been another Lui before the one we all grew so attached to. He was a tiny, unhealthy duckling, who barely survived for longer than a week. He never ate, he never grew, and he never uttered a single, weak beep! So we named him Lui, after the mute swan in the book I loved at the time and still love now. We named the other one, the bigger, stronger one, Lorax. As in, “I speak for the trees.” Only she didn’t speak for trees, she spoke for the ailing Lui. She could babble and burble and peep all day long without ceasing.  

When Lui the first passed away, I was very, very sad. I was nine at the time, I think, and I wasn’t used to all of our ducklings except for one dying. Five out of six, gone and buried in the ditch by the road with a morning glory or petunia, or dandelion, if nothing else could be found. It was dehydration, we were sure. The ducklings had arrived late in the mail (and yes, we ordered them off the internet to come in the mail) and therefore had gone a full three days without food or water. It was terrible. It was a miracle any of them survived.

When my mom asked if Lorax would be the remaining duckling’s official name, I replied “No,” almost immediately. It sounded odd, not appropriate now that Lui the first was gone. 

“What should his name be, then?” We thought she was a boy back then. You can never tell with poultry.

Again, I spoke without thinking. Even to me, the name-obsessed fourth-grader, the answer was obvious. “Just Lui.”

So that’s what she was. Just Lui, spelled L-U-I, not L-O-U-I-S. I cannot emphasize this fact enough, it seems. 

The first few days were the hardest. Whenever she was alone, Lui would cry a distressed duckling cry. Ducks aren’t solo creatures, especially not as babies. They need their family. So, inevitably, I became Lui’s family. And my mom, too. And the rabbits, in a way. We would sit underneath the crabapple tree in our front yard with the bunnies and little Lui. Lui marveled at the rabbits, who generally ignored her. She would peck at their ears, thinking they were some kind of bug. The bunnies didn’t seem to mind. They seemed to take Lui to be just another annoying sibling. 

As Lui grew older, she grew more and more attached to her humans. In fact, it appeared that she developed the notion that she was a person herself, or at least a dog. She would follow me everywhere, let me pick her up, sit on my shoulder and comply with all my antics. When I put my giant rainbow umbrella in her tiny kiddie pool, claiming it would provide shade on hot days, she kept on happily swimming. When I put the tail of my braid on her head, snapping photos and nearly dying of laughter (it looked like she was wearing some sort of ridiculous 80’s wig) she didn’t try to escape. When me and my brother would give her “flying lessons”, she would comply and always come right back for another try. She would sit on my chest or right next to my head on the rocking chair that you could tilt all the way back in, and we would talk. Seriously. I would say something, and she would answer with a burble, then stop and wait for me to reply. Then I would say something, then she would say something. Occasionally she would interrupt me, obviously strongly disagreeing with the point I had just made.

She was wonderful. 

And hilarious entertainment. When my friends came over, they were amazed by this feathered creature I had somehow bewitched into following me everywhere. And they were beyond amazed at her immediate friendliness. We spent the whole day outside, just so we could be with Lui. I remember vividly that one of us would stand behind a tree, hiding and watching, as the other one would sprint as fast as they could away from poor Lui, so that we could watch the duck waddle as quickly as she could after us. It was delightful, and Lui didn’t seem to care. She loved her people. 

Then entered the sort of teenage years. If you are currently under the impression that ducks do not go through fazes of growing similar to human’s, you are wrong. At about two months old, Lui grew distant, independent. Or rather, wanting to be independent. She stopped following me around as much. She began to live outdoors constantly, even when we weren’t watching her. She slept under a plastic bin that was nailed to the ground and had an entrance cut into it. She learned to fly like an adult duck. And that’s when we finally realized she wasn’t a male. She lacked all common clues that showed that she might have been a drake. Her quack, though plenty loud, was not low and raspy. Her head was shiny and smooth, but by no means green. Her bill lacked a yellow-ish tint. She was definitely a she. 

And she was a gorgeous duck, at that. Glittering purple feathers were popping out in her wide wings. Round black eyes, glassy and orb-like adorned her smooth head. Her chest was big, puffed, and soft. She was, by far, the most beautiful waterfowl I have ever laid eyes on.

And trust me, I’m only a little biased.

But she still sat on our laps. She still ate out of our hands. (She was especially fond of crabapples and dandelion puffs.) She still loved us like no duck has ever loved a human before.

She was growing fast, however. And we wouldn’t be able to take care of her for much longer. We didn’t have the supplies to keep a duck through the treacherous winters of South Dakota, and we didn’t know if we could handle having a bird that thought she was a person. Though her habit of chasing the dog (who was properly terrified of her) was funny, it wasn’t a good habit. Lui thought she was invincible, because that’s what spoiled animals often do think. 

The conclusion we finally came to: we couldn’t keep her. 

We made a deal with a family at church. They would take her, and take care of her. She would live on their farm, and we could visit her. When my mother told me this “good news”, I said glumly. “Okay. Good.” I didn’t want to give Lui away.

And I never got to. 

One night, right after the sun had set, my brother came in, looking shaken up and ashen-face.

“Ma, Daddy,” he said. He didn’t look at me. “I… I think Lui is dead.”

We all stared at him in shock. Slowly, my parents got up and followed him outside. I did, too. I went outside and I didn’t see her anywhere. I didn’t see a little duck coming up to say hello. I didn’t even see a body. I didn’t want to. 

I started crying. Crying as only a heartbroken 9-year-old can cry. I screamed and sobbed. I ran back inside before anyone could catch me. I ran into my room and I shut the door. I threw things, even my most beloved stuffed animal. I sat on my bed and I cried harder than I knew I could. Lui was dead. She was dead and she wasn’t going to come back. I didn’t even know that could happen. I didn’t even really know death was real until that day that Lui died. 

When my mom came to my room and sat down on my bed next to me, she cried too. It’s scary when your mom cries. Moms aren’t supposed to cry. I wish she hadn’t. Then, through tears and snot, I told her something silly that I had only just thought of. I said “I prayed she would be safe every night. I prayed it like it was a chore, and I - I didn’t want to do it. Now I would do anything to be able to pray for her again.” I broke down into another fit of sobs and we just sat there. That’s all I could say. That’s all I could think to say. 

Finally, I ran out of tears and I went to bed. I held my stuffed animal tight. “I’m sorry I threw you,” I whispered. 

Daddy came in and said “I have something for you.” He put a soft, thin thing into my hand. It was one of Lui’s purple feathers. I got up and tucked it into the drawer of my tiny mirror. I gave my dad a hug.

That night, my brother slipped a small book under my door. It was one of those books with cute dogs and happy quotes. I read the whole thing, since it was short. The last quote in the book was the one I needed. I repeated it over and over to myself before I fell asleep.

Don't cry because it’s over,

Smile because it happened.

-Dr. Seuss

We buried Lui under the lilac bush a few days later, in a shoe box with all the things she loved. Morning glories, dandelions, crabapples, duck feed and rabbit feed, red berries from our bushes. I cried again, but just a little bit.

Please take care of her, God. I prayed one last time. Please keep her safe in heaven until I can see her again.

I made her a gravestone and I visit her out in the front yard every once in a while, just to say hello.

Hello, Lui. 

Just Lui, spelled L-U-I.