I’m going to my local park for a walk later today. There, I’m certain I’ll find people feeding ducks by the water. A familiar fantasy will play in my head as I pass these kind strangers: reaching into a clear, plastic bag of my own and throwing fistfulls of hard, stale croutons, moldy slices of wheat bread, and five-day-old bagels directly at their heads. As they stare at me in anger and disbelief, I yell “Bon appetit!” and run away laughing maniacally.
Some people are compelled to feed waterfowl. They mindlessly toss bits of bread in the direction of any duck or goose within reach. In so doing, they are happy to feign ignorance about existing laws and regulations prohibiting the act. They are happy to eschew long-standing admonitions against feeding wildlife and habituating them to people. And they’re happy to remain wholly oblivious about the particulars of the species to which they offer handouts. They’ll simply throw the bitter end of a butter loaf towards anything with wings standing at the water’s edge. Even herons, egrets and cormorants–birds with a clear disdain for bread and a taste for fish–aren’t safe from the unwanted, shallow altruisms of people in the park.
There is a lengthy list of reasons why feeding ducks is actually harmful. White bread, for one, isn’t a particularly healthy food for waterfowl (nor, judging by their waistlines, for the people I often see feeding them!) Over time, wild birds lose their innate fear of humans when fed, a dangerous proposition considering how many other people blatantly despise ducks. Tossing food from the edges of streets and sidewalks habituates birds to congregate in those areas regularly, increasing the chance of collisions with bikes and cars. And feeding ducks introduces excess nutrients into lakes and ponds, encouraging the growth of algae and fouling water quality. Ironically, feeding ducks has more potential to harm the intended beneficiaries than to help.
Drawing a Distinction
Logic doesn’t justify fattening your neighborhood flock with processed, preservative-riddled foodstuffs. So what does? Surely, it must be a matter of the heart. Our desire to feed ducks must flow from some powerful, innate affection for our feathered friends, right? Not quite. Feeding ducks is in no way an expression of abject love for animals. As proof, consider the difference between what we do at home to nourish our family pets versus what we do in the park with waterfowl.
For our pets, we faithfully provide regular meals every day from an enduring sense of parental obligation. But for ducks, we cruise by the park for fifteen minutes, feed them something on a random whim, then surrender their fate to others as we drive off without looking back.
For our pets, we buy species-specific food, which is sometimes fresh and refrigerated, sometimes specially formulated, sometimes prescription, but is always pricey. But for ducks, we cast off whatever stale, nutritionally-deficient, borderline moldy hunk of wheat we can no longer stomach ourselves.
For our pets, we buy sets of personalized, matching ceramic bowls in which to serve meals with a pairing of filtered, fresh water. But for ducks, we just throw shit in the grass and hope they find it someday.
And when our pets don’t eat, we take notice. We grow concerned. We make veterinary appointments and schedule expensive tests. We nurse them until they regain their appetite. But if a duck refuses our generosity, well, “Screw him! We’ll just feed his buddy over there instead.”
Selfish Motivation
What you do in your home for your companion animal is an act of love (or at the very least co-dependence). What you do to ducks in the park is a narcissistic act that selfishly meets one or more of your own personal needs. But what, exactly, are we trying to satisfy? Let’s start with the most superficial rationale and go from there.
For Entertainment
Oh, that I had a calendar as empty as those who feed ducks at the park merely to pass the time! For these individuals, ducks are interchangeable with the nearby playground swing. Both are mere vehicles to thoughtlessly burn away excess hours. And sometimes–for frazzled caretakers–they’re a means to get through grueling hours of babysitting.
Many a goose has ingested a gullet-full of broken saltines in the name of helping grandparents keeping young children entertained. For today’s screen-habituated toddlers, inanimate trees and boulders hold little interest. But walking, quacking ducks? They still kind of, uh, “fit the bill.” So bread is tossed and mistakes are made. Yes, eventually these birds might suffer from Celiac’s disease or lose a wing to Type II diabetes. But, hey, at least it killed a half an hour with the pint-sized banshee.
For Companionship
Young children feeding ducks with their families is a common sight. But sometimes, you happen upon the vaguely disquieting sight of a lone adult wielding a bag of Sara Lee. Sometimes they’re silent. Sometimes they’re talking to themselves. And all too often, they’re talking to the ducks.
Look, I know not everyone is great at forming human connections. I know there are mannerisms, personality traits, and quirks that can make interpersonal relationships extremely difficult. I suffer from many. But I suspect trying to substitute mankind with mallards isn’t very helpful. The rest of the world recognizes the indifference of swans and geese, and knows their fleeting interest is conditional and transactional. So to the rest of the world, trying to gather geese together for a chat over coffee every morning is a giant red flag that you don’t quite get how true relationships are supposed to work.
So don’t be a mark. If you want companionship, get a dog or cat. They are still poor proxies for human interaction, but at least you’ll get some affection in return for all that food. And if a new potential friend enters your orbit, you won’t throw up a red flag when you mention your closest friends flock together in the lake.
For a Natural Connection
As the vast majority of our population moved from rural landscapes to urban settings, ancient connections to the natural world withered and faded from memory. But those ancient linkages bubble constantly beneath the surface. The unconscious pull of nature tugs strongly at our perceptions. They fuel preference for scenic vistas, inexplicable revulsion to spiders and snakes, and attraction to canids and felines.
Our reptilian brains hunger for connection to the natural world. But in urban settings of sparse natural diversity, options are often limited. We have no occasion to fear, hunt, befriend, or be guided by nature, since nary a mastodon, bison, wolf, or eagle now graces our suburban cul de sacs. But we’ve got ducks, and they seem hungry. So sharing bits of the breakfast sandwich we foraged from McDonalds will have to do.
The Bottom Line
As a species, we generally gloat about our place on the evolutionary ladder. And yet, we allow nature to lead us by the nose without protesting. We seem almost powerless to counter instinct or impulse with good reason. We’re happy to do what feels good, and just lead a life that is unexamined. (I’m absolutely certain Socrates never fed a goose, by the way.)
The brain is inherently lazy, and reconciling instinct and reason is hard when necessary. But here’s the rub: feeding ducks isn’t necessary. Its completely elective. Ducks survive just fine without welfare crusts. You’ve got a lot to deal with in life, and much of it is hard. So no need to spend your time and energy needlessly trying to widen waterfowl.
Some might be tempted to say I’m ascribing far too much significance to an inane, everyday transaction. That even if the practice of feeding ducks isn’t ideal, the relative demerits of the practice aren’t terribly consequential. That I’m putting way too much thought into such a simple exchange. But similarly, consider just how deeply you can delve into a rabbit hole if you innocently give a mouse a cookie. (No, seriously…you can really go down a rabbit hole!)
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