It usually begins with a phone call. The caller has found an orphaned duckling or gosling or loon or cormorant that needs some surrogate parenting. I am always available and can always make room for more.

I am crazy for ducks, especially the little mallards. I'm not sure why they tug at my heart strings the way they do.  They just do. They seemed so tiny and helpless that it is hard for me to understand how they survive in nature.  They just do.

In 2003, I wrote an article for The Island Breeze that earned me the nickname "Duck Lady."  The story revolved around a pair of mallard duck babies named Ben and Jerry. The next year brought us Lewis and Clarke.  They were followed by the odd couple, Goose and Maverick. Maverick is a duck, and Goose is a goose that thinks it is a duck and hangs around with other ducks in Buxton, where they were released.

It's been an unbelievable adventure for my husband and me. What started as an act of kindness has turned into a passion. Equally as unbelievable has been the public interest in our "duckapades." I am amazed that The Island Breeze readers still find it interesting. More interesting to me is that people continue to ask about Ben and Jerry by name after all these years.

For several springs, many a duckling has checked into our duck hotel, and each has been given the royal treatment of baby duck mash, fresh minnows, bugs, tub baths, and, of course, TV. When our babies grow up and develop wings so that they can fly, they get released back into duck friendly areas on the island.

Not all our orphans survive. Though I am well aware that it is nature's way to cull out the weak ones, I try my best to save each and every one. In our backyard is a little burial area for those who didn't make it. In my mind, I rationalize that everything dies sometime, but my heart is always deeply saddened.

Spring of 2006 must have been a pretty good year for the local ducks.

I anxiously waited for the phone to ring because I was ready for some baby ducks, but the call didn't come.

Easter came and went before I even got a false alarm. Twelve baby ducks had fallen into a pool, and there was no mother duck in sight. The little ducklings were dipped out of the pool and put into a container to be driven to me, and then the hen returned. Twelve ducklings would have been a lot to handle, but trust me. I was game.

Many weeks went by before I got another call.

"Still take baby ducks?" the caller asked

"Of course," I replied.

"We're on our way," the caller said.

I called my husband, Donny, to let him know that we had babies coming. Quickly, I readied a cardboard box to make a temporary home until I could take them home after work. A small towel lined the bottom and a shallow dish had been filled with water and some finely cut lettuce leftover from my lunch.

The precious cargo was delivered to my gallery in Frisco. In they came in an empty box made to hold doggie treats. The two guys inside were scared and not all happy about coming out but they didn't have a choice.

"They were just sitting beside the road near the lighthouse," the woman explained. "One was sitting on top of the other."

The search for their mother was fruitless. The ducklings which were only a couple of days old wouldn't survive without help.

My excitement over having two ducklings was dampened by their lethargic behavior. They had no injuries, but they had probably been on the run for most of their lives. The lack of food, water, and rest had probably taken a toll of their young bodies. I wasn't sure if they would make it.

They settled into the routine at home. Because they were so frail, I kept them inside a bathroom where it was warmer. In spite of the constant care, they didn't seem to rebound much. One seemed more spry than the other, but I wasn't confident that either would survive. Neither of them was given a name.

On the third night, I was awakened at 3 in the morning by a peeping duckling. To my dismay, the stronger one had died, and the weak one was inconsolable. Feelings of dread flooded my chest as I took the survivor back to bed with me. He (We always refer to babies as "he" until they grow feathers.) snuggled against my neck and made a nest out of my hair. For the rest of the night, he peeped in my ear without ever stopping.

He spent most of the next day on me or on my husband in some way. I would put him on the floor, and he would follow me wherever I went, his little feet pitter-pattering on the wooden floor. His favorite place was somewhere near our necks where he could lose himself in hair. Though he never totally stopped whimpering, his peeps were most heart wrenching when he was left alone. The little guy was needy and spent the next night on my pillow, too. I hope he got some sleep because I didn't.

The following day didn't start with promise. The nameless duckling was less responsive than before with no real interest in food or water. My husband kept saying that he was fine, but I knew that wasn't true.

My plan was to change his food and to find a buddy. Unfortunately, the mash I was looking for was no longer sold anywhere on the island. Finding a buddy was also fruitless. I quickly exhausted my sources for finding another orphaned duck on the island. Nobody had one.

I switched to Plan B. If I couldn't find a wild duck, maybe I could buy one. Generally, baby ducks are easy to buy around Easter, and it was just a few weeks after Easter. Once again, my list was quickly exhausted. I called every feed store from here to Virginia Beach. No food left.

When all hope seemed dashed, my co-worker Wayne suggested a place in Suffolk that sold plants but he remembered the store having ducklings at Easter years ago.

With help of the Internet, Wayne found the name and phone number. Fortunately, it was my last call. The store had two-week-old mallards and the special feed I wanted. This would certainly be a trip for love. It was a three-hour drive on a day that gas prices hit $3 a gallon in Virginia.

This journey was against the wishes of my husband, who, like some others, thought that driving to Suffolk was extreme and over the top. For me, it was the only way to save the duck. I had no choice.

Early the next morning, I drove to Suffolk and found the little plant store. It was an odd place and finding someone who worked there took some time. That was because the only person who worked there was out back tending to all the ducks and chickens. His explanation to his impatient customers was simple.  He couldn't bother with customers until he watered the critters. This was my kind of man.

When it was my turn with the duck whisperer, I felt a kindred spirit. He loved each and every one of the 100 or so ducklings and had hatched them all.

Buying a hatched mallard relieved me of any anxiety of separating a baby from its momma. His ducks were about a week older than my guy at home, so I picked the two smallest mallards from the cage. I got two in case one died.

The duck whisperer had the grain I wanted, and after endless instruction about the care of the two I bought, I made the long drive home. I worried whether or not the little guy at home would still be alive by the time I got there.

He was alive but weak. Introductions were made among the three. There was no drama but no apparent love either. The two new ducks were used to being with lots of ducks and accepted the weak one who seemed curious about their voracious eating and drinking habits. It took until evening before our little orphan got the hint, but he finally started eating the special food.

"I think he is going to explode!" said my husband after watching him eat continually for hours.

It was heartwarming to watch him eat and drink because he had little interest in it before. However, he was still a little wary about those other two guys. He would start peeping to let us know that he was ready for some people time.

He spent time sleeping on Donny's neck while he worked on the computer. Soon it was bedtime, and I wasn't going to spend another night with a duck sleeping on my hair. The three spent an uneventful night in the dry tub, and I had a good night's sleep.

In the morning, the two new mallards were interested only in eating, drinking, and rushing around the tub like maniacs. The cries started as our duck tried to get away from them. He followed me throughout the house as I got ready for work, the pitter-patter of his tiny feet resounding against the wooden floor.

"He sounds like Stewie on ÔFamily Guy,'" my husband said with a laugh.

"Family Guy" is an adult cartoon that we watch regularly. In the series, Stewie is a talking baby in diapers, who walks with a pitter-patter. Stewie has a brother, Chris, and a sister, Meg. And just like that all three ducklings were named.

During the next couple of days, a pattern emerged. Stewie tolerated being with Chris and Meg but preferred being with us. He still followed me around the house and slept on Donny's neck while he worked at the computer. We decided that his bond with us was too strong and that it was best to stop separating Stewie from the others. It was time for him to start acting like a duck.

The following weeks were a fun time in duck land. Chris was spastic and looked gawky because of his rapid growth rate. Meg was a lover, and Stewie still liked to sleep in our hair whenever possible.

As the season grew warmer, their permanent residence was moved to a nice cage on the porch, elevated so they could watch life outside. The tub became their swimming pool. I would sprinkle finely cut spinach in the water, which they devoured.

Chris quickly emerged as the expert swimmer, while Meg and Stewie were wondering what to make of this thing called water. As they nervously floated, Chris vigorously swam under water, biting at their feet.

Apparently, not all ducks take to water immediately, which explains why some get left behind in the wild. Meg and Stewie would have been left behind.

The daily routine was pretty simple. All three would be taken out of the cage and put on the deck. They would walk themselves down the hall and into the bathroom for their swimming lessons. Most times, one of them would miss the door, and there would be a short scuttle to corner him but never with any drama. The peeps quickly turned to duckie talk when they reunited. They wanted to be together always, including Stewie.

When they got a little bigger, I took a dip net to the canal in the yard and scooped up minnows and seaweed to replace the spinach.  I dumped them in the tub to simulate life in the wild. At first, the three little sissies seemed intimidated by the little fishes in their water. It was Meg who figured out to eat them. The other two followed her lead, and the tub was cleared of fish and seaweed.

Twice a day I dipped for minnows, and twice a day the growing ducks marched eagerly from their cage, down the hall, and into the bathroom. The more they grew, so did the number of minnows I gave them.

Meg dominated in the tub. She was a ruthless hunter and had all the skills to catch everything I put into the tub. In wasn't long before she was eating more than the other two. She ate everything even when it was too big for Stewie or Chris to eat.

"Meg, you've got big hips," Donny yelled from the bathroom one day.

He was right. Meg had substantially outgrown Chris and Stewie.

Something else had become evident.  Our three little ducklings had gotten their feathers, and they were all females. This was the first time we had ever had all the same sex. Chris, the gawky one, had grown beautiful feathers and was very elegant. Stewie? Well, Stewie was just Stewie, half human and half duck.

The summer had grown hot, and the ducks had wings. It was time to consider a release strategy for the threesome. Donny and I decided to release them on Pea Island. We looked at the long-range weather forecast and picked a day.

That last morning was like all the others. As I dipped for minnows, I was glad it was the last time. It took time to "go fishing," especially when the water level was low. During this time, I had netted five cottonmouth snakes and always feared an encounter with the one I wouldn't see in time.

Chris, Meg, and Stewie were loaded into a laundry basket covered with a towel. They nervously looked out through the holes as they were loaded into the car. There was not a peep out of any of them during the 40-minute drive to Pea Island.

When we got there, Donny and I walked around to pick to best spot to release them. The mosquitoes were eating us alive, which influenced us to pick a place closer to the road than I would have liked.

Donny carried the basket down to the water's edge and turned it onto its side, so the threesome could come out on their own. Unsure at first, they crept out and eventually into the water. In minutes, instinct took over, and they started acting like ducks Ñ splashing, diving, and eating the seaweed.

Suddenly, Chris sprung into flight Ñ her first flight. She went out of sight then flew back and circled a few times before making a flawless landing next to the stunned Stewie and Meg.

We were delighted that Chris came back. Even though Meg and Stewie weren't quite ready to fly that day, it was clear the day was near. Our kids were in a very safe location, and they were together. It was time to say goodbye.

As we backed away towards the car, we watched as they behaved like ducks.

It had been successful mission. Stewie had been saved from the side of the road and brought to this wonderful refuge. Only the lovable Meg seemed to have noticed that things had changed. She looked around, probably wondering where we were.

Driving away, I took one last look at my guys, and, as always, the tears came.

As pleased as I was for happy ending, I would miss them. The ducks were the center of my world during their two-month stay, and I knew I would never see them again.

Donny smiled at me while he handed me a tissue.

"You have a big heart," he said.

What can I say?

There ain’t nothing cuter than a baby duck!