Bernard the Mulard

Last year, I read Shelby Van Pelt’s debut novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures, featuring an octopus named Marcellus who tells part of the story from his own point of view. To be honest, it took me a while to open the cover. The book had been sitting on my shelf for about a year. I even borrowed it on the Libby app while traveling and returned it after reading only a few pages.

With disbelief fully suspended, I eventually enjoyed the story. In fact, reading it brought to life a long-dormant imaginary bond I once had with a very real duck. Unlike Marcellus, this member of the Anatidae family didn’t seem especially intelligent—but I sensed an empathetic nature in him, a friendliness that seemed to transcend the species divide between us.

Full disclosure: I am not an expert on waterfowl. What struck me as unusual might be just another duck tale to a zoologist or backyard duck-keeper. But I digress.

Four years ago, newly retired from teaching in public schools, I was grappling with a strange mix of relief and guilt. COVID still shaped much of daily life, particularly in classrooms. I had stepped away just before students fully returned to campus. Amid debates over masks, rampant cell phone use, and lagging social skills, many teachers were stretched to their limits.

I think I was suffering from a form of survivor’s guilt. Why was it OK for me to walk away while others endured so much? It sounds melodramatic now, but at the time I felt adrift in a no-woman’s land of post-career confusion.

One daily routine—before and after retirement—was my walk or run from home to a trail along the American River. About two miles in, at the Upper Sunrise access point, there’s a small boat ramp. That’s where I first met him.

He was sitting in the middle of the bike path, just uphill from the ramp. I came around a bend and saw him plopped on the pavement. Was he not worried a cyclist might barrel into him?

As I approached, I noticed feathers that looked vaguely mallard-like—gray-green and black. But when he stood up, I saw a massive brown breast, much larger than that of a typical Mallard. And on top of his beak was a red, knobby protrusion. I pulled out my phone and did some quick Googling: he was a Mulard—a hybrid between a Mallard and a Muscovy duck.

Over the days and weeks that followed, I saw him more and more often. If he was in the water when I arrived, he’d climb out and walk toward me. He quickly became a bright spot in my day—someone I genuinely looked forward to seeing. It felt like a friendship.

Friends need names, so I named him Bernard. Bernard the Mulard. It had a nice ring to it.

I told my wife and a few friends about our budding relationship. More than one gave me the arched-eyebrow “Are you OK?” look.

I often observed Bernard swimming. He trailed behind pairs of Mallards, Muscovies, and Pintails—always close, never fully accepted. The others tolerated him but seemed to sense he wasn’t truly one of them. I later learned that Mulards are sterile, which might explain why he never had a mate.

Bernard’s gentle nature brought me comfort. A few minutes with him could lift my mood and help silence the inner critic. I won’t claim he cured all my woes, but he helped. He never engaged in mindless quacking—he was the strong, silent type. I could talk to him freely, knowing he’d never betray my confidences on the riverbank.

About a year after I first saw him, Bernard stopped showing up at the dock. I miss him.

He brought quiet healing to the world and led by example. He never let his odd appearance—or forced solitude—hold him back. One webbed step at a time, Bernard waddled forward, speckled beak held high.

We call outsiders “odd ducks,” and we say we’re “like a duck out of water” when we feel lost. After knowing Bernard, I’m retiring those phrases.

I’m glad I met that fine Mulard. I imagine him floating down some other river, befriending the lonely and misunderstood—whether in this life, or the next.

Who knows? Maybe Bernard will get his own point of view in a novel or story. I’m preparing to self-publish my first book, and in his honor, my imprint is named Mulard Press.

May this lone duck live forever in my heart.

~ Julie Snider