The Changeling: How our chicken wound up raising a duck
It was news to me that a chicken could raise a duck, but after seeing a feel-good Instagram reel featuring exactly that sweet dynamic, the wheels started turning. You see, we had a broody hen that just wouldn’t come off it, and I was getting desperate for a solution to help her along.
Extra, Extra, Read all about the local farmer’s chicken that’s raising a duck!
For Immediate Release
The Johnson family is delighted to announce
that their broody hen, Marge, was safely delivered
of a hatchling in the wee hours of April 8.
Mom and baby are both doing well.
– The Flock Keepers
If you could speak hen, this is what you’d hear in the hen-house after that news dropped.
Cluck cluck. “Interesting choice of word…‘hatchling’. Wonder why they didn’t use ‘chick’?” Tuk tuk tuk.
“Girl’s got some explaining to do!” Cluck cluck.
“Anyone noticed if the egg man’s got webbed feet?” Cluck cluck cluck.
The henhouse may be a-flutter with gossip regarding the paternity of the newest member of the flock, but Marge is over-the-moon and oblivious to it all.

– The hen house a-flutter with gossip over the newest member of the flock.
The backstory
Some of you will recall my feeble attempts to break our hen, Marge, of her broodiness earlier in the spring. And how nothing worked. In the end, I just decided to just let things run their course.
However, as more time went by with no sign of her broodiness ending, I quietly hatched a little plan in my mind.
Early in April, our local historic site, The Grist Mill and Gardens, was hosting an Easter Egg hunt for families and I knew they were planning to have some baby ducks ready to hatch for the big day.
So, I figured, if they had an unhatched egg to spare, perhaps we could give it to Marge to hatch and raise. That way, Marge gets to honour her motherly instincts, and we get a pet duck. Win/win, right?
However, one recurring hurdle for many of my great ideas is my logic-bound husband. He’d been clear that we didn’t have room for more chickens but he’d never specifically said anything about a duck. So I figured there was a little wiggle room there.
I knew well enough from experience not to outright discuss my plan with him. And that my best chance of success was to surprise-attack him with my idea in the moment. Preferably in public.
The Double-Cross
As my husband, son and I approached the bustling spring gathering at the Grist Mill, we bumped into Chris, the General Manager, who also happens to be a friend of mine. And one of the most delightfully spontaneous people I know. After we exchanged a few pleasantries, I seized my moment.
Me: “By the way, I hear you’ve got some baby ducks for the kids to play with today! Did all of them hatch already?”
Chris: “Half have! Half will soon. Maybe in the next week.”
Me: “Oh, you don’t say. Did I mention we have a broody hen?”
Chris: “Oh yeah, how’s she doing?”
Me: “Won’t come off it, actually. But hey wait a minute, any chance we could have one of the fertilised duck eggs in the incubator to act as a decoy for her?”

I felt Bart’s eyes turn on me, but before he could say anything, Chris just smiled and said: “Of course! How fun would it be to have a chicken raising a duck?”
Our son clapped his hands in delight. Chris and I were all smiles. And I even watched my husband’s head switch from shaking-a-no to tilting-to-a-maybe in real time. Success!
Important Considerations
As we strolled along the grounds, Bart peppered me with uninteresting questions like:

“Is it common for a chicken to be raising a duck?”
“What will we do with a duck?”
“How do we keep a duck alive?”
“Where will it sleep?”
“How will we get it home?” and
“Why can’t you just be normal?”
I replied with my favourite catch-all responses:
“Variety is the spice of life!” and “I have absolutely no idea, but won’t it be fun to find out? followed quickly with: “Life’s a journey, Bart, not a destination.”
The Orphanage
Once the Sunday crowds had cleared, we made our way to the apple house, which was serving as a make-shift orphanage for the newly hatched ducklings in their brooder and the unhatched eggs in their incubator.
The eggs and ducklings were being carefully guarded by an earnest local teenager, who took her task very seriously. She would put the guards of the Faberge eggs to shame.
Once we explained our plan to her, in detail, and answered her many questions, we received her nod of assent to proceed.
Bart carefully lifted the incubator lid, I snatched an egg and our son stood at the ready with a soft pale yellow tea towel in his hands, ready to receive our precious egg and keep it warm and cosy until we got home.

With cheerful waves and wishes of luck from friends and volunteers at the Grist Mill, we whisked our egg back to the hen house at Riverbank Vineyard to see if our chicken might just come around to the idea of raising a duck.
Planting the Decoy
Predictably, we found our broody hen laying in the best nesting box, right where she’d stubbornly set herself a month or so ago.
Our son (ignoring her warning growl and ruffled feathers) carefully slipped the rather large egg under her warm tummy. She settled happily upon it, albeit a little lopsidedly, and gave us a little tuk tuk. (Translation to English: Tuk tuk = Ok then, that’s fine. Now leave me alone.”)


And we did leave her alone, mostly, for the next week. I say mostly because once each day I’d remove the egg from the nest to ‘babysit it’ so Marge could get out, stretch her legs, relieve herself, get a little food and water and have a quick dust bath.
On one such occasion, after Bart was done pruning the vines for the day, he came up to me to give me a hug but I pushed him away and snapped, “Be careful! I’m babysitting the egg!”
“You’re what? What do you mean? Jessica, where is the egg?”

To which I proudly pulled down the top of my sweater to reveal the duck egg nestled safe and sound (and warm!) in my cleavage (such that it is).
“I can feel the baby moving inside the egg, against my chest!”
He just rolled his eyes and said: “You need help. Leave that poor hen alone.”
Men never will understand.
The Changeling
Our little duckling hatched in the wee hours the day of the eclipse, after three days of slowly working its way out of its shell. Our son named her Penny.
We promptly removed Mama and baby from the best nesting box so the other hens wouldn’t have to worry about stepping on Penny (or outright killing the imposter, as some hens are wont to do), and transferred them to a dog-crate-turned-brooder set aside in the chicken run.
My son and I have set aside most chores in favour of watching Penny fluff out, take her first wobbly steps and navigate life on the outside.

My son takes her out for a ‘play date’ each day, to give Marge some time to eat, poop and dust bathe and that routine has resulted in the sweetest bond. Penny worships him and protests greatly when it’s time to give her back to her adopted mom.
She couldn’t give two cheeps about the rest of us.
Marge has taken to motherhood like a pro – as if it’s perfectly normal for a chicken to be raising a duck. Although she’s a little on the strict side…pecking poor Penny into obedience whenever it’s time to stop exploring and nestle up under her again. She’s also super grumpy with the other hens. But I’m not judging. I’ve been there. Zero sleep, aching body, hormonal shifts – none of us are at our best postpartum. But she’s finding her way and she’s an excellent Mama.

Part of the family
In a few weeks, when Penny is bigger and stronger, we’ll let her out of the makeshift ward and she’ll learn to fend for herself with the rest of the flock. I’m curious to see where she’ll fit in with the pecking order.
I’m being very presumptuous regarding her gender, in the hopes that by saying it enough it will be true and she’ll, in fact, be a she.
A drake, or male duck, can be a problem for female chickens, so if that’s the case, we’ll have to “find a new home” for Penny once he/she reaches maturity.
If it’s a she, hurrah! A forever-pet and duck eggs for us!

About the author
Jessica Johnson runs a small, traditional Bed and Breakfast from a vineyard in the Similkameen Valley of British Columbia, Canada.
Raised to be a strong, independent career woman but now a vigneron’s wife and stay-at-home mom on a fledgling homestead, she is clumsily yet happily establishing roots in her new landscape.
An expert at almost nothing but curious about nearly everything, Jessica writes about her adventures in rural B.C. where she raises her son and other wild creatures and is learning the old ways to preserve and grow food.