Rosemary And The Snails

Recently I told a friend of mine the story that became known in my family as Rosemary And The Snails, and thought I'd share it here as well.  I was too young to remember this event, possibly when I was around three years of age, but it became a family legend told many times over.  I believe the moral of the story is “Don’t mess with Rosemary, no matter her age”.

I was just as much an animal lover as a young child and I am now.  We had our own menagerie while my sisters and I were growing up including dogs, angora rabbits, cats, galahs, rainbow lorikeets,pet rats and more.  All these pets were clearly not enough for me and I kept snails as pets as well.  The snails lived by day in a cardboard box I filled with grass and leaves.  I wasn’t allowed to keep them in the house because they escaped at night to return to the wild, so they lived under a tree in the shade in our backyard.  I tended them carefully and loved them dearly.  After each night’s escape, I’d collect a new box of snails the next morning.  Apparently, I didn’t want to put a lid on the box because the snails needed to breathe. 

My paternal grandfather lived with us at the time.  Grandfather had lost a leg as a result of time as a prisoner of war in World War II and used a pair of crutches.  He was an irascible Yorkshireman with a very short temper.  He and my mother did not get along at all.  They actively disliked each other and took every opportunity to annoy one another.  Each was as bad as the other, although my mother tended towards subtle annoyances while my grandfather openly complained and thought of ways to make life difficult for her.

My grandfather, for reasons unspecified, decided one day to use his crutches to kill snails in the garden alongside where I was collecting my daily supply of pets.  He didn’t attack my box of pets, but just because a snail wasn’t living in my little box of snail luxury, didn’t mean I didn’t care about all snails.  I am told my grandfather and I had many cross words on the subject and that my grandfather, a very stubborn man, continued to use his crutches to crush snails in my presence.  No amount of remonstrance on my part convinced him that snails had the right to live as well.  Snail murder and mayhem continued much to my distress.  I plotted my revenge.

Grandfather retired to his bedroom for an afternoon rest each day - most likely recuperate from all the snail carnage.  One afternoon he woke up to find that his crutches had mysteriously disappeared, leaving him stuck in bed until someone came to his rescue.  It didn’t take long for the adults to figure out the culprit must be Rosemary, my sister Beth was only a toddler at the time, so clearly innocent.  I was made to return to crutches and most likely punished for the theft (punishment was never mentioned in the retelling of this story).  I begrudgingly returned the crutches, but continued to argue with Grandfather regarding snails and their right to live.

Grandfather continued on his snail crushing way, feeling I’m sure, that he’d won the battle with me and I was now a toothless tiger where protecting snails was concerned.  He was very much mistaken.  A few days after the missing crutches incident, and after more ravages of the snail population in our garden, my grandfather went to his bedroom for his afternoon nap.  He pulled back the covers and let out quite a yell.  Various family members came running to find out what was the matter this time.  Grandfather stood beside his bed, covers drawn back and pointed at a bed full of snails.  Possibly I thought that if he just got to know them better he'd see the error of his ways - or I was just giving the snails their own chance to revenge their fallen brothers and sisters.

After this, my grandfather never crushed a snail in my presence again.  I imagine he just didn’t want to contemplate what my next move might be. Harmony reigned supreme.  I'm sure snails were still crushed, but never while I was out in the garden where I could see the murders take place.

My mother, who I have said, disliked my grandfather as much as he disliked her, found a way to rub salt into his wound.  I hadn’t realised her new purchases after the snail war was a form of revenge until I grew up, but I’m now convinced it was deliberate on my mother’s side.  Mum went on a buying spree after the snails in the bed manoeuvre, bringing home cute little snail ornaments to display around the house and on one triumphant shopping trip, an entire snail tea set, including a snail teapot, sugar bowl, and salt and pepper set, which she gleefully used every day.  I still have the snail teapot from the set – it’s one of my prized possessions.

Walking

 

Recently Marlowe and I have begun walking each day, when the weather is agreeable.  We walk around the farm for about an hour and half, exploring different routes each day.  Marlowe, who could do with improving his fitness, is enjoying himself most days and so far has discovered three new dams he didn’t know existed.  Marlowe takes every advantage of these dams and enjoys a dip, usually half way through out walk.

 

Our walks begin with stealth.  Cleo is now far too old and frail to come with us on our walks, but Cleo doesn’t accept this situation and feels abandoned if we leave without her.  I usually try to sneak out with Marlowe while Cleo is sleeping peacefully in her favourite sunny spot.  Sneaking anywhere with Marlowe is a difficult task.  Marlowe doesn’t do sneaking, he does bounding from place to place, with tail wagging and making as much noise as he can, especially when he knows a walk is in the offing.  No amount of shhhhing and reminding Marlowe that we are sneaking out helps.  Marlowe is full of pre-walking joy and wants everyone to know it.

If, as is often the case, Cleo wakes up during Marlowe’s pre-walk bounding, and realises we are about to desert her, the only thing to do is to take Cleo on a short walk down to our machinery shed and back.  This is a five-minute walk at best, and Cleo soon realises that a five-minute walk is about her limit these days.  We walk slowly at a Cleo pace there and back.  Marlowe contents himself with running around the paddock and generally letting off steam – walking at a Cleo pace is not for him.  Once back inside the house yard Cleo lies down, and while not exactly happy that Marlowe and I head out again, at least she doesn’t want to follow us.

Graeme has reported that if Marlowe’s pre-walk celebration doesn’t wake Cleo, and she wakes after we have left, she immediately finds her support squeaky and carries it around with her until we return.  Cleo goes into full pathetic mode and refuses to be happy until we are back.  This pink pig, support squeaky, seen beside Cleo in the photo below, is something Cleo has had for a long time (well, she’s had a few of them as they fall to pieces and are replaced, but to Cleo they are the same beloved squeaky toy). 

When Aslan died years ago, Cleo mourned him for months.  She carried her little pink pig everywhere while whining and searching for her friend.  It broke my heart to watch her missing her best friend.  After Marlowe arrived, Cleo pretended she didn’t love the puppy.  She informed me, on Marlowe’s arrival that she was too old for puppy nonsense these days and proceeded to ignore the puppy - until Marlowe had to stay at the vets’ over night when he had a huge abscess on his jaw.  When we arrived home without Marlowe, the squeaky toy came out and remained by Cleo’s side until Marlowe returned.  Cleo, realising she’d given herself away, never again pretended she didn’t love the new pup.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, after most walks we are met at the gate by Cleo and her support squeaky toy.  Marlowe runs up to her to tell her all the news – how many birds he saw, where the latest new found dam is located and how cold the water is.  Cleo patiently listens to all Marlowe’s news and rubs noses with him again, before settling down in her favourite sunny spot, confident that the big fellow won’t disappear again today.

Venus, our ex-feral cat and honorary dog, often decides to come along on our walk.  Venus spends most of her days with the two Saint Bernards – Cleo is her dog.  Why she bonded with Cleo after moving in and retiring from the feral life we don’t know, but Cleo is definitely the dog she loves.  She’s fond of Marlowe as well, but it’s Cleo all the way for Venus.  She prefers to sleep with the dogs, rather than on the fur cat bed, often sleeping in the middle of Marlowe’s bed next to Cleo’s bed and causing poor Marlowe to have to seek other arrangements until I come to the rescue.  Venus is often is found sharing Cleo’s sunny spot – two friends together.  

 

On her first foray into the marathon walks, when Venus began following Marlowe and me on our walk, I explained the length of our walks to her and suggested she might like to stay home.  In the past, when Cleo was able to walk a bit further, Cleo, Marlowe and I would walk for about half an hour.  Venus would follow us on our walks, always trailing behind, but always staying with us.  Once we turned for home, Venus would lead the way, glad that her pack had finally come to its senses and were done with this silly rambling idea.  Venus, after my talk with her regarding the length of our walks these days, ignored me completely and insisted on coming along.  I thought she’d simply sit down and wait for us if she got tired, or head home.  I was wrong.

 

Venus valiantly followed us, complaining most of the way that we’d gone too far and should turn around.  Marlowe and I waited for her to catch up when her complaints were really loud and on a number of occasions I carried Venus for a while so she could rest her little, tired legs.  Venus is a heavy cat.  I really get an extra workout those days.  We stop for a rest when we found a suitable outcrop of rocks and Venus enjoys sitting in the sun, although I think she enjoys not walking more.

After her first long walk with us, by the time we got home Venus was totally fed up with walking and, tail straight up in the air to register her disapproval of dogs and humans who walked far beyond the endurance of a fat cat, she left us, without even saying hello to Cleo on the way.  I thought that would cure Venus of accompanying us on walks in the future.  Once again, I was wrong.

Venus did turn her back on us when she saw Marlowe and me heading out for a few  days after that, but then, about two weeks after her last walk with us, Venus decided to forgive and forget and follow us once more.  I can’t say I was enthused by the idea of Venus coming along for our walk again, but if you’ve ever tried to stop a cat from doing whatever the cat wants to do,  you’ll understand why Venus came with us.

We usually now stop halfway on each walk, and I carry her part of the way once more, and Venus complains a lot once more, and Venus is now part of our walking party, if a somewhat reluctant part.  No amount of reminding her it’s her choice makes her any happier about the length of our walks. 

Marlowe is very happy to have Venus accompany us.  I’m thinking about making him a back carry pack big enough to fit a fat ex-feral cat.  My only problem with this idea is Marlowe’s mid-walk swim.  I doubt Venus would enjoy either a dip in the dam with Marlowe or a damp bag after said dip.  I can see a lot of fat cat carrying in my future. 

 

Night Time Escapades

 

The ducks.  Home safe and sound and not going anywhere near the gate.  We've had quite a bit of rain lately so the chook yard is not looking it's best.

Each afternoon I let the chooks and ducks out into the house yard for a few hours of scratching around searching for delicious little morsels.  They can only have this short time out in the yard because I have to lock Cleo and Marlowe in the laundry at the same time so they don’t find delicious little morsels in the shape of chooks or ducks. 

Before I even get to the chook yard the feathery inhabitants are gathered at the gate waiting for the opportunity to go forage.  The braver hens wait right at the gate, the drake and three ducks tend to start out right up against the gate, but as I approach they work their way to the back of the queue while the newer, Silver Laced Wyandotte hens, hang back a little further and wait to see if the braver hens once again survive walking past me as I hold the gate open for them.  Only one brave Wyandotte has the courage to walk past me most days.  Once those that are going have passed me I put a brick against the gate to hold it open and go into the yard to collect the eggs and clean the water trough.  This is when the rest of the Wyandottes and the ducks make a break for it and race past me and out the gateway.  

Various inhabitants of the chook yard.  The ducks, Silver Laced Wyandottes, George, Emma the White Sussex hen, and two unnamed black hens (all the black hens look very much alike)

In winter, after scratching around for a while and enjoying the extra space and grass, all the chook yard inhabitants return to their yard, find their favourite spot to settle down and are ready to go to sleep.  This usually happens around dusk every day.  In summer, they are locked up long before sunset, which is a much more energetic experience for all concerned, because none of the poultry is willing to come quietly while there’s daylight left.  Sometimes in winter, when I'm busy inside, I miss the sun beginning to set and have to go out to the yard with a torch to count heads in the dark.  Everyone is always there so it's not a problem.  Sometimes the ducks are wandering around close to the gate, but waiting for me to appear before they go in at the very last minute. 

George, my elderly Chinese Silky has moved out with the big girls now that her friend Emu died a few months back.  Prior to this neither George nor Emu would have anything to do with the chooks outside their yard.  They objected to any chook, apart from Monster, the rooster Emu hatched and both Silkies mothered), visiting their yard.  Once George was all by herself, she moved out to the main yard for the company and settled in, bullying the bigger girls for their treats and generally ruling the yard.  The only worry I have is that George goes back to her yard to sleep in the box there.  She roots on top of a cleaned out chemical drum rather than the roosting pole I made especially for her, and ignores the straw I've laid down in the box to help her keep warm.  

George

All the other chooks and rooster snuggle in together in various spots around the nesting boxes in the main yard, and generally keep each other warm.  The ducks bed down in one of the nesting boxes, all snuggled together as well.  Poor little George is by herself on these cold nights and looks very lonely.  I've discussed the matter with her a few times, suggesting sleeping with the big girls would be much warmer, but George refuses to sleep anywhere else.  I worry that she's not warm enough in that lonely box, with just her own feathers to keep her warm.

I let the chooks and ducks out into the house yard yesterday as usual.  When it came time to count heads, it was dusk, but night was closing in quickly.  Everyone was present and accounted for as usual.  I was worried about George in her lonely box and had the bright idea to use some curved plastic thinga-ma-jigs I had lying around, to drape over the end of her box where she sleeps.  This gave her more protection from the cold wind.  George just huffed and fluffed out her feathers, but she wasn't worried about my building this makeshift wind guard.

The four ducks on the other hand, who were not even in George's yard but quite a distance away, decided whatever it was I was doing was terrifying.  They took off at a run and ran out the still opened gate.  I hadn't thought I'd do more than count heads so I didn't bother closing the gate while I was in the chook yard.  I had my torch with me and called Graeme for help when I found the ducks had totally disappeared in the gloom as soon as they ran out the gate.  Graeme came to help and we spent more than two hours trying to find them.

We located three of them reasonably quickly but the fourth had disappeared entirely.  In the end, after a long, fruitless search, peering under bushes and shaking branches to try and dislodge any ducks hiding there, Graeme thought to let the three ducks we’d returned to the chook yard out to see if they went to wherever the fourth duck was.  Well, that was a good idea in theory but in reality we ended up losing another duck to the night.  By this time the sun had set, the wind was biting cold and the battery in my torch was giving out.  I returned to the house for another torch and some woollen fingerless gloves.

Graeme had found the two ducks and we tried to round them up, but the drake bravely did the fake broken wing thing to attract our attention while the duck escaped.  I was watching the duck as she ran past towards me, but then she just disappeared.  I have no idea how she did that.  The ducks are all Khaki Campbells so blend in really well with their surroundings.  Graeme returned the drake to the yard and we both scoured the area where the duck was last seen.  I now believe that particular duck has magic powers and simply disappeared, without even the puff of smoke, and materialised somewhere else in the yard.  It is the only explanation.  She certainly wasn’t anywhere near where I saw her disappear.

With a total of one drake taken prisoner and three ducks still on the run, I let Marlowe out of the laundry to help find the other three ducks.  I told Cleo to stay where she was  The night was freezing with light showers making it all that much worse and her old bones didn’t need to be out in that type of weather.  I told Marlowe that this was his moment.  It was freezing cold and the ducks were lost in the wilderness of the garden.  This was what the monks on the Great Saint Bernard Pass bred his ancestors to do!  OK, it wasn’t skiers, or even ducks, lost in the snowy Alps of Switzerland, but there were still enough similarities for Marlowe to channel his ancestors and rescue the misguide ducks and return them to safety. 

Marlowe jumped about with excitement while I explained his mission and rose to the challenge, tail wagging.  He followed me to the last known sighting of any of the ducks.  He managed to find two very quickly – nowhere near where we thought they’d be.  We managed to catch one of them - Marlowe was disappointed that he wasn't allowed a catching role in this escapade, but he put his nose to the ground and tried again.  Sadly, Marlowe didn't have any more luck after that, though not for lack of trying.   I think with the number of times Graeme and I had roamed around the entire yard, looking for wayward ducks and the number of times said wayward ducks had scuttled about avoiding us, there were too many scent trails for one young Saint Bernard to sort out.

Marlowe, revisiting the scene of his night time triumph in locating two ducks.

 After two and a half hours of freezing weather and misting rain, we decided to leave the last two ducks outside for the night.  The dogs were let out for a chaperoned toilet break, but locked in the laundry all night.  I hoped and prayed that local foxes didn't discover the ducks' hiding places. 

Bright and early this morning Graeme went out to see if he could find the two errant ducks.  Some time before Graeme went looking for them they had decided to come along quietly and both miscreants were waiting at the gate for him to let them back in.  Graeme held the gate open for them and they waddled in, to be met by the delighted quacks and quick grooming from the drake and duck who’d spent the night in their normal sleeping quarters.

When I went to feed the chooks and ducks this afternoon, I'd already decided that I wouldn't be letting anyone out today.  The chooks would just have to live with my unilateral decision and enjoy the treats I’d brought instead.  In the end, my decision didn't matter.  The ducks, who are usually waiting at the gate to be let out, where as far from the gate as they could get.  They didn't venture closer even when I cast the chook scraps and sunflower seeds out for everyone.  I don't think any of them enjoyed last night's adventures.  I know I certainly didn’t.

Marlowe checking on the ducks today to make sure they aren't planning another night time escape. 

 

 

Photo Time

 

Aslan’s and Marlowe's breeder, Ann, is in hospital, and has been for a while now, with more weeks in hospital likely.  She is missing her Saint Bernard family dreadfully.  Ann and I send each other text messages from time to time when my puppies or hers do something worth sharing.  I suggested to Ann that she tell the hospital staff that studies have shown that patients heal faster if their pets are allowed to visit like family.  I admitted that I made up the studies bit, but Ann felt it worth a try.  She had no luck.  Hospital staff have firm opinions on a number of Saint Bernards visiting their cardiac wards.

With Ann suffering from Saint Bernard withdrawal symptoms, I thought I'd photograph Cleo and Marlowe looking suitably sympathetic to add to a get-well text message to try to cheer her up.  

Photographing Cleo and Marlowe together is not for the faint hearted, although photographing them singly isn't a piece of cake either.  Cleo, who has settled into geriatric life quite comfortably, just can't be bothered with posing for the camera any more.  She feels that she's done her time as a photo subject, and now that her years have mounted up, should be excused from all requests to sit for a photo.  In short, Cleo now needs a lot of gentle persuasion to join in the fun. 

Marlowe, who is still enjoying a prolonged puppyhood, loves any form of attention and bounds up ready, willing and able to pose for as many photographs as I'd like to take.  The trouble with photographing Marlowe is his taste leans towards the avant garde style of photos and Marlowe prefers extreme close-ups of his nose, over the more mundane shots taken from a short distance away.  

Getting the two puppies together is usually easy.  They are great friends and Marlowe just loves anything that includes Cleo.  Cleo is happy to listen to my plans and then raise whatever objections come to mind in typical irascible old lady fashion.  The problems arise when I want them sitting still, side by side (or as close as I can manage to get them side by side), for a posed photo.  As stated above, Cleo is not enthusiastic and it takes much cajoling to get her to sit where I want her to sit.  These days her old body is not a fan of sitting when asked to do so.  I rarely ask her to sit these days out of respect for her advanced years, but when I do, it takes a few repeated requests to get her bottom on the ground.   

Marlowe is another kettle of fish altogether.  He will smartly sit when asked, with a very smug look on his face, but actually getting the large body into the spot I want it for a photo takes a great deal of effort on both our parts.  I take him by the collar, plant his body reasonably close to Cleo and say, “Sit!”  Marlowe sits, then turns towards Cleo to give her a snuggle on her face, or a lick on the ear, nose boop, or any other affectionate gesture that occurs to him. 

Cleo is now well and truly over sitting, but bravely stays put, doing her best to ignore Marlowe’s actions, no matter how good-natured they are.  According to Marlowe it's not his fault that when he snuggles, licks or leans on Cleo it ends up with him standing up again and in a different spot to where he started.  I then manoeuvrer him back to the desired spot and get everything ready for the photograph. 

By the time I gently persuade Cleo to sit nicely and to stay put, with Marlowe sitting beside her, I have to back away carefully, hand raised in the stop position and repeatedly saying, “Stay, stay, stay!”  Marlowe's tail invariably wags, and I'm all in favour of a dog with a wagging tail, but he loves to instil a false sense of hope in me and stays beautifully until I lower my hand to press the camera button.  Then we are back to nose close-ups. 

Cleo meanwhile is sitting like a perfect angel, clearly asking Marlowe what's so hard about staying.  Only Cleo and I know she stays so beautifully because she can't be bothered getting up and going through the whole routine again.  I then return Marlowe to the spot next to Cleo - wrangling him into position with lots of enthusiasm so Marlowe thinks it's a treat.  I then go through the "Stay!" process again and repeat the above over and over. 

What usually happens once Marlowe finally realises I want him to sit next to Cleo and actually stay there, is that by now Cleo has had enough.  She lets me know that she sat and stayed for quite a while and she is now fed up with sitting and staying.  She tells me a lady of her advanced years needs lots of pats, ear rubs and sleep - sitting and staying is not on the list of geriatric Saint Bernard needs anywhere.  I have to sweet talk her back to sitting next to Marlowe and keeping Marlowe in place while I get Cleo's co-operation and get her to at least try to look happy about it.  Once I finally get a reasonable photo, and by this time, I have taken many, many unreasonable ones, I delete all the nose close-ups, ear scratches, nose boops and puppies looking over their shoulder or whatever.  I then come inside and make myself a cup of tea - because boy! have I earned it.  

Here are the only two reasonable photos I managed to take today.  The first one has Marlowe sitting in a very peculiar, hunched over position (I think he's just about to get up and move in for a close-up).  He’s actually quite a bit larger than Cleo but because he’s hunched over it doesn’t look like it.   I sent the second one to Ann, even though the puppies aren't quite sitting side by side, they are both facing the camera and looking suitably sympathetic.  I just hope Ann appreciates the amount of work that simple little photo represents.