Remembering Hertha: A Tribute to Our Beloved Duck
Last updated on October 8th, 2025 at 07:59 pm
There are moments in life that we wish we could hold on to forever, and then there are moments that change us because of what we lose. Writing this post is one of the hardest things I have done, because it means putting into words what my heart still struggles to accept: our sweet Hertha is no longer with us.
Her passing was sudden and unexpected, and the grief has been overwhelming. But this tribute is not only about the sadness of losing her. It is also about remembering the love, joy, and companionship she brought into our lives every single day.
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Hertha’s Place in Our Flock
I can still remember the exact day Hertha came into our lives: November 3rd, 2021. She had just been hatched two days earlier, on November 1st, and along with her sisters Emma and Schnatterinchen, she made the long journey from Metzer Farms to us. We picked them up from the post office that morning, and the moment I held that little box in my hands, I felt our lives shift. The three tiny ducklings inside chirped with such energy and warmth that they immediately filled our hearts with love. From that day forward, they were inseparable, and so were we from them.
For the first eight weeks of their lives, Hertha, Emma, and Schnatterinchen lived right in our living room. Their little brooder became the center of our home, and every day brought new discoveries as we watched them grow, play, and form their lifelong bond. Even after they grew older and moved into their indoor pen, they were still frequent visitors in the house, toddling in as though they had always belonged there, which, of course, they did.
Life with ducks is full of joy, but also challenges. The three sisters went through a frightening experience early on when a bobcat attacked. By sheer luck and quick intervention, nothing happened to them, but the event changed us. It pushed us to build a new, larger, and more secure pen so that they would always be safe. Out of that experience came not just stronger housing but a stronger sense of responsibility and devotion. We owed them a safe, happy life, and that became our guiding principle.
From the very beginning, Hertha stood out as the leader of the flock. She didn’t lead with aggression or dominance but with quiet grace and steadiness. She guided the others gently, always calm, always sure of herself. When Penny and Simon joined our family in 2022, Hertha remained the flock’s anchor. Simon especially attached himself to her. He became her partner, following her everywhere, always at her side. Watching the two of them together was heartwarming. He trusted her completely, and she seemed to carry that responsibility with dignity.
Hertha’s relationships with the rest of the flock were unique. Schnatterinchen was her best friend from the start, and their bond never wavered. Emma and Hertha were very close as well, their sisterly bond deep and obvious. With Ronja and Penny, her connection was more neutral; they coexisted peacefully without ever being especially close. With Krümel and later Muffin, it was different. Hertha never really warmed up to them. She preferred to keep her distance, often walking the other way to avoid being near them. It wasn’t hostility, just a quiet choice to spend her time elsewhere. That was Hertha’s way. She knew what she liked and what she didn’t, and she moved through life true to herself.
In 2022, Hertha faced one of her greatest challenges: a severe case of bumblefoot. What followed were months of treatments, vet visits, and small surgeries. It was difficult, and seeing her struggle was painful, but Hertha showed incredible strength through it all. She was patient, resilient, and she allowed us to care for her in ways that required immense trust. That experience once again changed how we cared for the flock. It made us rethink the ground in the run. We replaced the old surface with artificial turf to protect their feet, and it has made such a difference. In many ways, Hertha’s hardship improved life for all of them.
Hertha was never the biggest cuddle bug, but I loved her deeply, and I know she loved me too. She trusted us, always close, always watching. Sometimes she would settle near me with a quiet comfort, and that closeness was its own kind of affection. She had her favorite bush in the yard, where she would spend hours making soft, happy noises, completely content in her little world. Foraging was one of her great joys. She could spend an entire day searching the grass, especially when it had just rained. Rain brought out her happiest self, waddling and dabbling with such obvious delight.
She was also the first of our flock to lay an egg back in 2022. I still remember the pride I felt when I found it. Such a milestone in her life, and in ours as duck parents. Hertha grew into a beautiful lady, strong and elegant, with feathers that gleamed and a presence that made her stand out.
Through all the seasons, Hertha shared life with us. She and the flock spent cold winters tucked safely in the garage, hot summers cooled off in the living room, and stormy weather sheltered inside whenever thunderstorm warnings came. They were never “just poultry.” They were, and are, beloved pets, each with their own personality and story, each loved and cared for as deeply as any family member. And within that family, Hertha was always a cornerstone.
Hertha’s place in our flock was not just about leadership. It was about love, trust, and the steady way she carried herself through life. She shaped our journey as duck parents, she shaped the dynamics of the flock, and she shaped the rhythm of our days. Our home and our lives are forever marked by her presence, and her absence leaves a silence we feel in every corner.
The Day Everything Changed
It all began on Monday, Memorial Day. That morning, I noticed something was different about Hertha. She wasn’t herself, though at first it didn’t seem severe enough to warrant an emergency vet visit on a holiday. She was still eating, still drinking, still moving around. But there was a subtle shift. She kept more to herself, a little quieter, a little more withdrawn than usual. If you know your ducks, you know how quickly you can read them. Something was off, but it was so faint that I told myself it could wait until the next day.
On Tuesday morning, everything changed. The moment I saw her, I knew. She was worse. It is hard to put into words, but duck parents know this instinctively—when something is deeply wrong, you feel it in your bones the second you lay eyes on them. Hertha was weak. She had soft tremors running through her body, her eyes looked so very sad, and her feathers were ruffled and dull, as though the shine had been stolen from her overnight. She wanted to eat, but she would retreat quickly, almost as if even that simple act took too much out of her.
I brought her inside right away, setting up a sick bay in a playpen where she could be comfortable and safe. I mixed her fresh water with electrolytes and vitamins, offered her her own food and snacks, and she nibbled a bit. Not knowing exactly what was wrong, I also gave her an Epsom salt bath in case it was egg-related. At the same time, I called the vet and got the earliest appointment available that afternoon. It felt reassuring in the moment—like we had a plan, like help was on the way.
I went to work that morning, not realizing it would be the last time I saw her alive. Duck dad stayed home to watch over her. Early in the afternoon, he called me to say she was getting worse. She had started vomiting, and her weakness was more pronounced. Panic set in immediately. I rushed out of work, heart racing, desperate to get back to her. But I was too late. Somewhere on the drive home, Hertha slipped away.
The guilt of not being there with her in those last moments is something I carry with me still. I regret going to work that day. I regret that I was not holding her, speaking to her softly, letting her know how deeply she was loved when she took her final breath. I wish with everything in me that she had shown us sooner that something was wrong, that I could have had more time to help her. I wanted so badly to save her. I would have done anything to keep her here with us.
But I could not. And that truth breaks my heart.
Hertha’s passing was sudden, and the shock of it still lingers. One day she was with us, leading the flock with quiet grace, and the next she was gone. The emptiness she left behind is immeasurable, but so too is the love that remains.
Letting the Flock Say Goodbye
One of the things that has always struck me is how deeply ducks feel. They are intelligent, emotional beings who understand far more than many people give them credit for. When Hertha passed, I knew it was important not only for me to say goodbye but also for her flock to have that chance.
When I came home that afternoon, I found her still warm but lifeless. I picked her up and held her close, unable to believe she was truly gone. I cuddled her body tightly, wishing with every fiber of my being that I could bring her back. The warmth of her feathers was still there, but the spark of life had left. I could not let her go. I sat there for a long time, holding her, whispering to her, crying into her feathers. It was one of the most painful moments of my life.
As hard as it was, I knew that Hertha’s flockmates needed to see her too. Ducks grieve, and they need to understand when one of their own is no longer with them. So together we carried her outside into the yard and gently placed her on the grass. Then we let the others out.
What happened next was both heartbreaking and beautiful. The entire flock gathered around, curious and quiet, as though they sensed the weight of the moment. Schnatterinchen was the first to approach. She came close, touched Hertha gently with her bill, and tried to nudge her awake. It was as if she couldn’t believe her best friend and sister was gone. When she realized there would be no response, her eyes filled with a grief I will never forget. She lay down next to Hertha, staying by her side, keeping her company in silence. That small act spoke volumes. Her way of saying goodbye, her way of refusing to let Hertha be alone.
Emma reacted differently. She could not bring herself to come close. Instead, she kept her distance, watching from afar. You could see the sadness in her eyes, but she seemed unable to face the reality directly. It was as if the pain of looking at her sister’s lifeless body was too much for her heart to bear.
Simon, Hertha’s loyal companion, was confused. He circled, hesitant, almost disbelieving. You could tell he didn’t want to accept what he was seeing. The bond he had with Hertha was strong. She was his partner, his leader, and losing her left him unmoored.
Muffin and Krümel, who had never been very close with Hertha, came to investigate with curiosity rather than deep sadness. They looked at her, seemed to understand something was different, but moved away again. Even so, it mattered that they were there, that each member of the flock had the opportunity to acknowledge what had happened and to witness Hertha’s passing in their own way.
Each duck grieved differently, but all of them felt the shift. Our flock dynamics have changed since that day. The yard is quieter, the group more subdued. Emma and Schnatterinchen are especially heavy with grief, their sadness visible in their eyes and their routines. Simon, too, has not been the same without his partner at his side. Their leader is gone, and the void she left is felt in every corner of the flock.
As painful as it was, letting them say goodbye was the right choice. It gave them a chance to process the loss, to grieve in their own ways, and to begin to move forward. Just as it helped them, it helped us too. It reminded us that Hertha’s life mattered deeply not only to us but to her entire flock. She was their anchor, their guide, and their companion. And now, together, we carry her memory.
Creating Memorials for Hertha
For us, remembering Hertha means keeping her close, even though she is no longer physically with us. Grief leaves such an empty space, and memorials give us something tangible to hold on to. A way of saying she is still part of our home, our family, and our daily life. We created two memorials for her, one inside and one outside, so that wherever we are, her presence surrounds us.
Inside our living room, Hertha has a place of honor. When we brought her ashes home from the vet, they were placed in a beautiful wooden box engraved with her name. Alongside it, we received a footprint pressed into clay and a few of her soft feathers, keepsakes that mean more to us than words can express. The vet’s office also gave us a condolence card, signed with heartfelt messages from everyone who had known her there. Reading their kind words was bittersweet. It reminded us how loved she was not only by us, but by those who cared for her during her treatments and routine visits.
We added to this little shrine of love by ordering an acrylic plaque from Etsy with one of our favorite pictures of her. It bears a simple but powerful saying: “Gone from our yard, but never from our lives.” Beneath it are her hatch date and the date she left us, two bookends on a life that, while far too short, was filled with joy. This corner of our home is now Hertha’s corner, a space where we can pause, remember, and feel close to her. It is both a place of sorrow and a place of comfort, and we visit it often.
Outside, we wanted to honor Hertha in the spot she loved most. She had a favorite bush in the yard, a place where she would often sit for hours, hidden among the leaves, making soft happy sounds as she foraged and rested. It was her safe space, her little sanctuary. We placed her outdoor memorial right there, so that she will always be part of the life of the flock and of our moments outdoors together.
For this space, we chose a granite stone engraved with her picture, her name, and the words: “Gone too soon, forever waddling in our hearts.” We got this memorial stone from Etsy. Next to the stone, we placed a small solar lantern with a duck pattern carved into it. At night, it glows softly, casting little duck shapes across the ground. It feels like a way to guide her through the darkness, a gentle light for our girl who meant so much to us. Now, when we sit in the yard, the flock around us and the evening settling in, Hertha is there too.
These memorials bring us comfort. They are a way to say she is still here, woven into our lives and our home. They give us places to grieve, but also places to celebrate her, to remember her quirks and her beauty, and to remind ourselves that she will always be part of us. Whether we are inside or outside, Hertha is never far away.
Coping With the Loss
Grief is not a straight path. It twists and turns in unexpected ways, some days feeling lighter and other days crushingly heavy. There are moments when I find peace in remembering the good times with Hertha. The sound of her soft quacks, the way she waddled with such gentle determination, the sight of her nestled happily in her favorite bush. I can almost feel the warmth of her presence when I close my eyes. But then there are days when the absence feels too large to carry, when the silence she left behind echoes through the yard and the sadness is nearly unbearable.
The flock, too, is adjusting in their own ways. Ducks notice when one of their own is missing. They may not understand it in the same way we do, but they feel the emptiness. They feel the shift in the group dynamic, and they grieve. Emma has carried this most strongly. She and Hertha were bonded from the very beginning. Sisters hatched together, raised together, side by side every single day of their lives. Without Hertha, Emma looks lost at times. She lingers more, slower to join in, her eyes carrying a sadness that mirrors my own. We give her extra love and patience, knowing that she, too, is learning to navigate a world without her sister.
Schnatterinchen, who shared such a special bond with Hertha, shows it as well. You can see it in her posture, in the way she carries herself. She still seems to expect Hertha to come around the corner at any moment. Simon has also been deeply affected. Hertha was his partner, his anchor, and without her he seems adrift. He still searches for her sometimes, as though he cannot quite accept that she is gone. Even the quieter members of the flock, who may not have been as close to her, are subdued. The entire group feels the weight of her absence. Their leader is missing, and everything is quieter without her.
For us, coping means leaning on one another. Our family and our flock. We spend more time together, sitting outside with the ducks, sharing lettuce, or watching them splash in the pool. Those small moments bring comfort, softening the sharp edges of grief. Talking about Hertha, remembering her quirks and her sweetness, helps to keep her close. Sometimes we cry, sometimes we smile, but always we feel grateful for the time we had with her.
Building her memorials has also been an important part of healing. They give us a tangible place to go when the grief feels overwhelming, a place where we can talk to her, sit quietly in her presence, and remember that she will always be part of our story. It helps to know that even though she is gone, her memory is anchored in our home and our yard, where she belonged.
And slowly, little by little, we find ways to move forward while carrying her with us. Grief doesn’t disappear, but it softens. It becomes part of you, a reminder of the love you shared. With Hertha, that love was deep and steady, and even though her life was far too short, it was full. Remembering that truth brings comfort. She was safe, she was cherished, and she was happy. And now, as we adjust to life without her, we hold on to that.
A Final Thought
Hertha’s life, while too short, was full of love. From the moment we picked her up at the post office as a tiny duckling, she was surrounded by warmth, safety, and care. She never knew neglect, fear, or loneliness. Only companionship, good food, fresh water, and the embrace of a family that adored her. She had her sisters Emma and Schnatterinchen by her side from the very first day, her flock around her as she grew, and eventually Simon, who loved her with quiet devotion. And she had us, duck mom and duck dad, who cherished her deeply and made sure every day of her life was filled with comfort and joy. That is the greatest comfort in our grief: knowing that Hertha’s days were never anything but safe and loved.
Though we wish with all our hearts that she were still here, we carry her forward in countless ways. In the bonds she formed with her sisters and her flock. In the resilience she showed as she overcame challenges like bumblefoot. In the little traditions she left behind. The bush she loved to sit under, the joy she found in foraging after the rain, the way she led her flock with quiet grace. Each of these memories is a thread that keeps her woven into the fabric of our lives.
Grief reminds us of how much love was shared, and Hertha’s love continues to ripple through our days. When the flock splashes in the pool, I think of how she would have joined in. When I see Emma lingering at the gate, I think of how she used to wait there with her sister. When Simon looks lost, I remember how Hertha steadied him. She is gone, but her influence remains in every corner of our lives, and that is something death cannot take away.
Hertha will always be part of our story. She shaped who we are as duck parents and as a family. She reminded us every day that ducks are not “just poultry,” but intelligent, emotional, sensitive beings who deserve to be loved as deeply as any other companion animal. Hertha was proof of that, and honoring her means carrying that truth forward.
So while we mourn her absence, we also celebrate her life. A life that was short, but full. A life that left its mark on us forever. She will always be with us, in the laughter of the flock, in the quiet moments in the yard, and in the memories we hold close. Forever waddling in our hearts, gone too soon, but never forgotten.
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