Vang: In this chaotic world, my family and I have found comfort and joy in ... our pet ducks

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Over the years, my family has hosted a rotating cast of non-traditional animal companions: a pink axolotl named Sakura who ate ghost shrimp with terrifying speed, a hermit crab named Shelley who managed to survive a three-week cross-country road trip with us (and outlived our expectations by three years) and African Dwarf frogs that never left the water. And now, our latest additions: three female Cayuga ducks.

Yes, ducks. As in waddling, flapping, backyard-splashing, egg-laying ducks.

We love the idea of pets with paws. But because two of our three children are severely allergic to fur, we got creative.

Cayuga ducks are among the most beautiful and unusual duck breeds in the world. Named after the Cayuga people of New York and introduced in the 1840s, these beetle-green-black birds were once prized for their meat, but are now mostly kept for their beauty and their stunning black eggs. Their eggs lighten in color over time, shifting from deep obsidian to pearly white as the season progresses. The taste? My 16-year-old daughter Jahia describes it this way: “like chicken eggs, pretty much.”

Pet ownership in the U.S. has increased significantly over the past three decades. As of 2024, 66% of U.S. households, or 86.9 million homes, owned a pet. That’s up from 56% in 1988. From companionship to emotional support, pets are a vital part of their owners’ lives. In fact, 97% of pet owners consider their pets to be a part of their family.

Owning non-traditional pets has its benefits: no fur, fewer allergies, something cool to talk about at dinner parties, and (in our case) a steady supply of eggs that feel like gifts from a magical poultry fairy.

Let me introduce you to our ducks. There’s Mr. Savage (a hen, or female duck, who, yes, we named before we understood duck anatomy), the smallest and tamest of the three who walks with a limp and loves to be held; Beatrice, who lives in the duck pool like it’s her personal spa; and Mai Nhia, our most prolific layer who often sneaks inside the duck house to do her egg-laying business in private. Her name in Hmong means “girl money” because I hoped she’d bring us good fortune.

Our youngest child, Shao, is the primary caretaker. The 11-year-old has got the routine down: feeding pellets made of mystery grains and protein, changing the water every two to three days, and vigilantly watching for predators. He took the fuzzy ducklings last year to his Catholic school’s blessing of the pets ceremony. The ducks were instant celebrities. Everyone wanted to touch them. Shao loved the attention.

Thirteen-year-old Shia, our middle child and resident researcher, is the one who started this whole exotic pet journey. She is the most allergic in the family and even went into anaphylactic shock once after being exposed to dogs. After years of feeling left out, she began searching online for allergy-safe animals. She followed a snake influencer on social media and campaigned hard for a snake. I vetoed it. We compromised with Shelley, the hermit crab. Then Sakura, the axolotl. And now the ducks.

My husband, Brian, has embraced the unconventional pets, too, as a way to give our children the experience of having a pet. He swears the ducks are usually quiet by breed standards, but they’ve quickly learned that quacking at 3 a.m. gets them treats. They’re like toddlers with feathers: the fridge is full of healthy food, but they only want mealworms and minnows. His favorite is Mr. Savage, who gets picked on by the others because of her limp. “But she’s sweet,” he says. “She lets you hold her.”

And me? I find myself in awe of how much emotional bandwidth these ducks take up — in the best possible way.

In a world that often feels like it’s coming undone — the intrigue around President Donald Trump and the Jeffrey Epstein files, Gaza in agony, the climate on fire, and even personal grief and disappointments that feel like small wars of the heart — these ducks have given me something vital. A reminder that care is not performative. It’s physical, constant and messy.

And speaking of messy, duck poop is no joke. It’s industrial, everywhere, and unrelenting. The pool water needs changing every other day, and no matter how many times I clean the Palace of Versailles, it always smells faintly of a pond in July. This is not the work of casual affection. It’s labor. But it’s grounding labor. It reminds me that love, in all its forms, is messy — and worth it.