“Beware of Attack Duck,” warns the sign on Tani Brewer’s bathroom wall.

Another reads, “Rubber Ducky Rd.”

The 63-year-old Orcas resident’s flock of rubber duckies now numbers 602, including babies, and no two are the same.

While Brewer has collected things all her life – including totem poles, Buddhas, Swedish cookie stamps, and hand-woven Native American baskets – rubber ducks are a fairly recent kick. She was inspired to begin collecting ducks eight years ago when a friend came over to use her bathtub, bringing along his yellow rubber duck. When Brewer suggested that he leave his duck in the bathroom, he joked, “Over my dead body!”

Brewer says that soon after, her then-husband Lanny Robertson came home from Ray’s Pharmacy with a big grin and a rubber duck for each person in the house. That was the beginning of an eight-year duck collecting spree.

Two years ago, her friend tragically died, and the duck that started it all was shipped back to Brewer. It now rests inside a protective box, patriarch of the flock.

So, why rubber ducks?

“Everybody speaks rubber ducky,” said Brewer, who has named her menagerie “The Flaherty Hill Flying Circus Ducks.”

A few years ago Brewer asked Robertson to perch one of her ducks on their mailbox. She reconsidered when he replied, “Do you want to be known as The Duck Lady?” He did agree to mount a duck on the fender of her Toyota pickup truck.

Brewer remembers sitting inside the truck one day as a stranger cautiously approached the vehicle. The man looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and then reached out to pet the duck. He walked away smiling.

While Brewer has never entered her ducks in a rubber ducky race, flock members do travel. Brewer has taken some of her duplicate ducks on past vacations. But all stowaways must pass one test: Brewer checks them for seaworthiness in her hot tub.

“I was horrified when we began ‘interviewing’ ducks to take on trips,” Brewer lamented. “Most of them don’t float; they go belly up, sink, or go sideways.”

While touring the Mediterranean and France, she stealthily released rubber ducks into public fountains and canals, enjoying the bemused stares and chatter of passersby.

Many of the ducks in Brewer’s collection are your standard yellow rubber duck, but accented with unique accoutrements like movie star sunglasses, a snorkel, or a tuxedo. Rounding out her avian throng are glow-in-the-dark ducks, military ducks, ducks with devil horns, cartoon character ducks, and ducks patterned after soccer balls and basketballs.

Some are performing ducks: push on the wing of one, and it quacks. Wind another and it waddles stiffly across the countertop. One of Brewer’s personal favorites is her “trilingual” duck, equipped with LED lights and offering renditions of Frere Jacques, Farmer in the Dell, and London Bridges. Brewer brought out a very unique blob-shaped duck that jiggles like a jelly.

“Isn’t he revolting?” asked Brewer, with obvious delight.

She has ducks from Portugal, Ireland, Mexico, Spain, the Channel Islands, and France. About a third of Brewer’s ducks were recently on display at the Orcas Library, a locale they have traveled to a few times before.

In recent days, her bathroom is getting full and it’s tight quarters for the quackers.

“By this stage they kind of have to come to me,” she said. “I try not to go out and find any more.”

She plans to install one more high shelf encircling the bathroom before she stops collecting ducks.

“When there’s no more room in the bathroom, I hope I won’t start collecting something else,” Brewer said.