W hen I first saw Oscar he seemed the most chilled puppy ever, five months old, a black labrador/something cross, lying placidly on a sofa in a foster home in Sussex. I already had a German shepherd, Phoebe, and wanted a playmate for her after losing our Hungarian puli to old age. I took Phoebe into the room to see how they might get on. Oscar lifted an eyelid as if to say “Whatever” and closed it again … But when we took Oscar home, he panicked in the car and threw up. We later learned that he had been found wandering the streets of Havant in Hampshire, and we guessed perhaps he had been thrown out of a car. As a patron of the RSPCA, I am passionate about rescuing animals in need. This particular experience taught me the importance of knowing the history of the animal you are adopting so you can adapt to their needs. Thankfully, our Oscar grew up to be healthy, lovable and mischievous, as well as something of an egg thief. My wife, Lara, and I had hens, and a variety of ducks on a small lake. Oscar used to swim out to the island in the middle, steal the duck eggs and eat them. But one morning in October 2017, he did something very different. Lara and I shared an office in our home. Around 10am Oscar padded in with something in his mouth, came over and nudged me, wanting to show it to me. I thought it was a stone and patted him, but ignored him as I was on the phone. He then went over to Lara, who exclaimed: “It’s an egg!” View image in fullscreen A duck called Mickey. I immediately told her it was probably several months old and not to let it drop, as it would stink out the office. He opened his mouth and let her take it. Then, much to our surprise, it made a tapping noise. That explained why he hadn’t eaten it. We immediately phoned a duck breeder friend, who said it was very unlikely to hatch, but we could get an incubator and see what happened. While we were waiting for that to arrive, we wrapped the egg up and put it on the coolest part of the Aga. Two days later it hatched into a tiny Indian runner duck. We named him Mickey Magic and kept him in the house for five months as he grew. He would sit on the sofa with Oscar and our other dogs, Wally and Spooky, and watch TV. When he got too stinky to stay in the house, we put him in the coop with the hens and imagined him boasting to them about having had underfloor heating and tons of channels on TV to watch. Oscar sadly died three years ago, but we still have Mickey – only we subsequently discovered he is a she, Michaela. Six-and-a-half years on, she is now a proud great-grandmother.