The round of golf had started awkwardly enough; we had planned to play as a foursome, but at the last moment one of the chaps had elected to bring along his wife, and being as it was relatively social golf on a quiet course on a Sunday afternoon, we bit the bullet and played as a five.

We were horrendously slow, and I recalled my parents' and gradfather's conversations about the frustrations surrounding playing as a five. It didn't help that the average handicap was greater than twenty. Nonetheless, after four hours the light was fading and we had made it through twelve holes. We were all tired, and had throughly ruined a short walk with plenty of shots.

The thirteenth was the kind of length that's a par 4 for men and a par 5 for ladies, with the ladies' tee some forty metres behind the gents'. The lady among us was certainly the most tired, and flatly stated that she "Couldn't be f%^ked walking that far back." So, we teed off in turn, and she was to hit last. Four drived sailed in the general direction of the fairway, before she'd stepped up to the tee.

Her shot was credibly straight. It was, however, also a 'worm burner' or 'ground grubber'. It ploughed into a raft of ducks pottering in front of the tee.

The ducks scattered, their fat white-feathered abdomens flying low across the fairway. One remained.

Its neck was broken. It tried to fly away, but merely succdeded in flipping itself onto its back, with head and broken neck lying underneath its body. It tried again to fly away, and the same thing happened. It was panicking. It was dying. The duck kept flipping. It was sickening to watch.

Two of the group had promptly marched up the fairway to find their wayward tee shots. They weren't interested in the animals. The lady had gasped and begun to cry. She was pretty fazed by the flipping, dying duck. I said to her hubby, "We need to do something."

One of the unharmed ducks flew back and waddled over to its dying friend. It got to about a metre from the flipping, whirling body and was scared into flying off.

We decided that the duck needed to be 'put out of its misery', and I was tasked wtih delivering the fatal blow. I softly walked to within range, and the duck went ape. The neck was visibly snapped and loose, and it flicked and flew about like a lamb's tail. The duck's eyes spun and gurgled and sparkled.

I felt sick to the stomach. I hit it across the head. It lay still.

Then, it tried to fly away again. I was mortified. I wasn't sure what to do, because the duck had again started to flip and whorl on the spot. I felt even more nauseus. I aimed carefully, and hit the duck again.

It lay still, eyes grey. The head lay twisted, protruding from under the body, bloody with beak open.

I wiped the club on the ground, and returned it to its owner. I went back to my gear and walked the hole in a daze. I had just killed an animal. Essentially and ultimately, my choice had hastened it's death.

I knew it'd been the right thing to do, but it was still awful. I wasn't in the mood for any more golf. I wasn't keen to hit anything else at all.

I think, in retrospect, that I wouldn't have been so upset if I'd only had to hit it once. But, given that the first blow was ineffective, another was necessary. The choice had been made and needed to be followed through.

Although this story lends itself to all kinds of 'end of life' and ethical issues, I've also been thinking about it regarding undesireable outcomes. What happens if a surgery doesn't work? What plans are made for a failed therapeutic outcome?

The duck's end was final, the endopoint unalterable. But that's not always the way. Taking a knife to someone's a risky procedure and not to be taken lightly, of course, nor is the illness in the first place.

There's often talk about surgery being reliant on a positive, confident mindset from both patient and doctor. The whole, 'Do it once, do it right' credo. But, gee, it's pretty awful to be confronted with a worse situation than when you started. How the hell do you get a patient to truly comprehend that?