We had had dust storms all day. Dust storms in July are unheard of, but coming out of the drought, there were still plenty of empty paddocks and dry dirt roads for the winds to whip up into a dust storm. Later in the afternoon, the dust storm turned into rain. With the amount of dust in the air, it was more like it was raining mud that water, but at least the dust was settled. Then there I was sitting in the lounge room, thinking pleasant thoughts about the wind and rain outside when all hell broke loose. The child like storm outside had whipped itself up into a fully-grown, vengeful mini tornado. The house began to groan in protest. The window flexed and made that scary noise windows make when they are on the verge of shattering. Our corrugated iron roof joined the party, making noises like a roof about to leave the party.
I not unreasonably decided that my spot on the lounge near the windows was not the best place to be. I quickly joined Graeme and Justin in the kitchen where we waited until the violence abated before doing a quick check of all the windows in the house, before Graeme checked our roof for damage. The roof held up well, but when I went in to check our bedroom, I found a small rivulet of water cascading down the wall, adding a water feature to our room causing our bedroom to be soggier than I would have liked. Mum-Puss and Guinevere had been sleeping on the bed during the tempest, and as soon a I walked into the room Guinevere made a dash for safer environs. Mum-Puss, the stoic old lady that she is, toughed it out even objecting loudly when I forcibly removed her from the bedroom to give Graeme and Justin elbow room to staunch the flow.
Apollo and Shadow were locked up in the laundry and only Billy was roaming at large. Apollo wants it stated for the record that he wasn’t the least bit afraid. These violent weather phenomena are meat and drink to a brave guarder of the sheep (even if he is retired). Shadow was just grateful not to be face to face with the storm and also to have that Rock Of Gibraltar, Apollo for comfort. Billy wasn't sure, but he thought the end of the world had come and took off around to the side of the house, when various items stored on our back porch were sucked out into the garden. We managed to coax him back and I coaxed him into the kitchen with promised of a safe harbour until he calmed down. Graeme quickly laid the dining room chairs down to provide a barricade thus locking Billy into the confines of the kitchen where he proceeded to make a mess of the floors with his great muddy paws. Thank goodness for Graeme’s quick thinking.
Let me tell you, you don't want an over-anxious St. Bernard confined to a kitchen, especially once he's discovered that his arch nemeses, the ferrets are taking shelter there too in their inside cage!! Miette and Albus galvanised into their regular Billy repelling stance and dared him to start anything. Billy, who’s quite used to this reaction when he wanders over for a chat with the ferrets ignored their blatant threats and continued to try to find a way into the 30cm and 150 cm cage. He thought he'd found heaven when he looked up from inviting the ferrets to come out and play and saw Guinevere and Lancelot sitting under the dining room table on the other side of our makeshift barricade. To Billy’s credit he didn’t attempt to scale the chairs to reach the cats. It wouldn’t have even been a challenge for his long legs, but he dutifully stayed on his side of the chairs and tried to entice the cats to join him in a game of chase. Needless to say the cats declined to accept his offer. The only problem now that he knows where all the fun animals live is that I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep him out of the house in future!
My poor garden seems to have taken the brunt of the damage with large amounts of trees are lying all over my front garden. It was only just getting back on its feet after the drought. The rest of the farm came off relatively unscathed. It appeared that the true violence was confined to the house yard and its environs. I don't think God wants me to have a garden at Spring Rock. I don't know why He has taken this attitude, I've always built lovely gardens at my other homes, but every time I begin to get the garden where it looks more like a garden than a disaster area, something comes along and wrecks it. I just might have to stop trying now. If God is going to send mini tornados to stop me gardening then I hate to think what He'll send next time!
The sheep weathered the storm in their normal calm, cud chewing manner. Only one set of twin Suffolk lambs became separated from their mother. Graeme braved the elements and reunited this little family. He returned to the house looking very much the damp hero and I’m sure the Suffolk mother was eternally grateful that she didn’t have to venture out from the safety of the flock to retrieve her young. Graeme conducted a damage assessment of the farm the next morning. He found that no damage was done further a field and that Mahala was calm and in charge of the situation. Mahala had been my biggest worry now that her mother Christie has died. Mahala always looked to Christie for reassurance and protection in trying times. By the way, next day Billy looked like he has been swimming in mud. I don't know how he's managed it, but there is hardly a clean spot on him. He's spent the day after the storm sitting at the back door waiting for us to go out to the toilet and then he waylaid us. We come back inside looking like we've rolled in the mud ourselves. The sad part of this is that Billy needed a very thorough grooming to restore his coat to its usually glossy appearance. And you know what grooming Billy entails!
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
De-Grass Seeding Billy
An example of the offending grass seeds - the natural enemy of Billy's pawsAh the joys of summer. The flies, the heat, the lack of rain and top of my list … removing grass seeds from Billy’s toes.
As many of you may remember, grooming Billy is fraught with all sorts of dangers (for those of you who are new to my blog and don’t know about the ways not to groom a St Bernard, you can read all about it here http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/01/good-grooming-can-be-health-hazard.html ), and let me tell you de-grass seeding Billy is even more hazardous to my well being! Grass seeds have to be removed from Billy’s toes because the seeds will eventually work their way into the delicate skin between his toes or between the pads underneath and begin to work their way up his leg, forming abscesses on their way. This happened last year on Boxing Day and ended with an emergency dash to the vet’s where the vet, with me assisting, crawled around on the floor of the surgery removing numerous grass seeds from Billy’s legs and more delicate parts while Billy was under sedation. We crawled around the floor because the vet declared Billy just too darn big to lift onto the table. Even though I acted as vet nurse the procedure still cost us a couple of hundred dollars.
It all begins when Billy is found gently gnawing away at one of his massive paws. Billy is getting very sneaky, after numerous de-seeding sessions, and tries to munch surreptitiously while my attention is somewhere else. But eventually he’s discovered chewing away at one of his paws. He immediately tries to change the subject by jumping up and inviting me to play a game of Knock Rosemary Over but I won’t be distracted from my mission. With a huge sigh I gather my tools - my reading glasses, small scissors and tweezers and return to the back porch from where more often than not Billy has completely disappeared.
Billy is sadly handicapped when it comes to lying low. I usually come across him trying to be invisible in the shadows of some bushes or trying to blend in with the scenery somewhere. As soon as I spot him he hunkers down in an effort to shrink his bulk or better still disappear altogether. When neither miracle happens I wrestle, pull, push or anything else that works to get Billy back onto the porch for his pedicure. Once the porch is reached and I regain my breath and composure while keeping a firm hold on his collar, the next job is to turn Billy onto his side from a standing position. I am seriously out classed here. I’m 5’ 3” (heaven’s knows what that is in centimetres, but I bet it’s not much) while Billy is nearly 3’ tall on four legs and somewhere around 6’ tall on two. Not that big you say? Well you have to remember to pack 70kgs of muscle and fat around those vital statistics, and let me tell you, Billy has every gram well packed.
I approach this delicate task the same way with the same technique I used when turning sheep over back in my sheep turning over days. I kneel down, take hold of the two legs furthest from me and pull. Now this worked about 90% of the time with sheep. Sheep are dumb and when they find themselves slightly off balance they fall in a confused heap and wonder what the hell just happened. Billy on the other hand, while often giving the impression of having little more brain power than a sheep, is actually quite an intelligent dog. When I pull his legs in the time honoured fashion, he lowers his head into my shoulder and knocks me off balance. Then over I go in a confused heap wondering what the hell just happened while Billy stands nearby the picture of concerned drooly innocence, offering his back for me to lean on to help me up again. This goes on for a while until finally Billy takes pity on me and drops to the ground. Once he’s on the ground I once again regain my breath and composure before the next step in the proceedings.
Just because he’s feeling sorry for me doesn’t mean that Billy will actually co-operate in the removing of grass seeds. Oh no … Billy’s role in the entire process is to put as many spokes in my wheel as he can. I pick up the massive, soggy, chewed paw and try to hold it in my left hand. This paw is big enough for any full grown lion to be proud to call its own and holding onto it is made extremely difficult by Billy thinking I’m starting a game of tug-of-war. After an initial tussle where Billy wins most of the rounds, I end up sitting on as much of Billy as I can while holding my body at whatever uncomfortable angle is best for seeing the spot where the grass seeds might be. From time to time Billy will quickly draw his leg out of my hand to the safety of his body where he will do all he can to protect it from any more maltreatment on my part. Billy often stoops to manufacturing even more drool than normal and threatening to spread it as far over my person as he can reach while still protecting his foot. Sometimes he pretends that he needs the foot for some other vital job like having a scratch or covering his eyes, whatever he thinks I will believe. I don’t believe anything a wussey St Bernard says during de-seeding of paws, although the drool threat does give me pause for thought. When these ploys fail to stop the clean out operation, Billy becomes very helpful and constantly inserts his head between me and the paw in question. He assures me it’s just so he can get a closer look at my technique and show me where it hurts, but I have my doubts. Trying to work around a massive head with strings of drool hanging off each side of its jowls certainly puts a dent in my already pitiful enthusiasm for the job, but ever the masochist, I persevere.
As with any activity involving Billy getting the worst of the deal, the ferrets stand at the front of their cage offering advice and volunteering to help anytime I’d like to see the seeds removed with sharp little ferret teeth. I can almost hear the shouts from the ferret cage to allow audience participation. I really do believe this is the ferret’s favourite time of year.
Eventually I manage to clean out all the grass seeds between each toe and pad and move on to the next foot. Most of the actions described above are repeated three times at least. Thus after the better part of an entire day has passed, Billy ‘s feet are once more in pristine condition and ready to go out there and gather more seeds. Which is exactly what he does as soon as I set him free. The ferrets return to their naps or whatever they were doing pre de-seeding and I’m left with a pile of seeds big enough to sow a fair sized paddock (always given someone wants to sew a paddock down to weeds that is), clothes covered in St Bernard hair and drool and an aching back. There are possibly a few bruises to show for my efforts too, but out of loyalty to Billy I refuse to acknowledge them.
The only variation on this procedure occurs if Graeme hears me rousing on Billy (or pleading with Billy if I’ve been at it for a while) and comes along to help. He then takes over the de-seeding operation while I hold Billy’s head and distract him from what is going on down at his feet. Billy still offers some resistance, but with Graeme’s strength and my efforts to prevent his head getting between Graeme and the seeds, Billy is severely hampered in his efforts. This means that Graeme will get the job done in a disgustingly short space of time with minimal effort. Graeme doesn’t understand why I find the job, when practiced solo, so difficult.
And so Billy’s feet are once more seed free and I can rest up for a while … Excuse me, I have to go now, I just saw Billy chewing on his paw.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
How to hug a baby Billy style.
When it comes to hugging babies, Billy has his own method. He can't brag that it's successful or wins friends, but he makes up with enthusiasm what he lacks in finesse.
Step 1: Billy spots a baby (or in his case toddlers. They are more thick on the ground - babies tend to be kept up high out of his reach). Spotting the toddler usually makes Billy stop whatever he is doing and do a double take. He seldom sees toddlers on Spring Rock, but when he does he's always ready to offer a paw of friendship.
Step 2: In order to get this friendly paw closer to the toddler, Billy makes a dash towards said toddler (hence forth to be referred to as the hugee). One of two things happen after this. Billy either fails to stop in time and knocks the hugee over or the hugee loses all confidence in the face of so much dog and jumps backwards on very unsteady legs, usually landing on his/her well padded bottom.
Step 3: Either of these results puts the hugee in the perfect position to receive some drool just prior to being sniffed all over in an extremely enthusiastic manner, while Billy professes his love and undying loyalty.
Step 4 (in theory only): The next step would be to do the proper St Bernard thing and help the hugee up, then proceed with the hugging bit, but for some reason Billy’s never been able to proceed to this step. He's discovered that toddlers, when knocked to the ground by large, friendly dogs, tend to cry and adults come running from all directions and remove said toddler from the love fest, thus removing any chance of the hug actually taking place.
This failure to follow through hasn't discouraged Billy though. He still tries to complete the whole mission each time a toddler gets within bounding distance. He's hoping that when toddlers grow up to be children he'll have more success. After all children are harder for adults to lift and remove.
Only time will tell.
Step 1: Billy spots a baby (or in his case toddlers. They are more thick on the ground - babies tend to be kept up high out of his reach). Spotting the toddler usually makes Billy stop whatever he is doing and do a double take. He seldom sees toddlers on Spring Rock, but when he does he's always ready to offer a paw of friendship.
Step 2: In order to get this friendly paw closer to the toddler, Billy makes a dash towards said toddler (hence forth to be referred to as the hugee). One of two things happen after this. Billy either fails to stop in time and knocks the hugee over or the hugee loses all confidence in the face of so much dog and jumps backwards on very unsteady legs, usually landing on his/her well padded bottom.
Step 3: Either of these results puts the hugee in the perfect position to receive some drool just prior to being sniffed all over in an extremely enthusiastic manner, while Billy professes his love and undying loyalty.
Step 4 (in theory only): The next step would be to do the proper St Bernard thing and help the hugee up, then proceed with the hugging bit, but for some reason Billy’s never been able to proceed to this step. He's discovered that toddlers, when knocked to the ground by large, friendly dogs, tend to cry and adults come running from all directions and remove said toddler from the love fest, thus removing any chance of the hug actually taking place.
This failure to follow through hasn't discouraged Billy though. He still tries to complete the whole mission each time a toddler gets within bounding distance. He's hoping that when toddlers grow up to be children he'll have more success. After all children are harder for adults to lift and remove.
Only time will tell.
Friday, May 15, 2009
I Love Farming
I love farming, I really do. If I keep telling myself that over and over again I just might remember why. I've had a traumatic experience recently that could only happen to those living on a farm. Now that I have sufficiently recovered to be able to talk about it, here’s what happened.
I was sitting at the computer, having a friendly chat session with a friend when Graeme came tearing up to the window and shouted, “Sheep in the dam! Ring Justin and come and help now!!!” With a very dramatic “Got to go” message to my friend, I disconnected, rang Justin and followed Graeme to the shed, with pictures of half our stud flock wallowing up to their necks in sticky mud.
As you most probably know (I think I’ve mentioned it once or twice) “Spring Rock” is currently drought ravaged. Most of our dams have either dried up or are in the process of drying up. When a dam is in the process of drying up the edges become very sticky with sloppy mud up to a few metres deep. This is not your average, brown innocuous mud, oh no – this is slimy, oozy, very smelly, stagnant water, black mud, and it is this wonderful stuff that sheep seem to find irresistible. Once a sheep puts two feet into the mud they are trapped and being sheep they do whatever it takes to make their situation worse and the task of getting them out as difficult as possible.
I caught up with Graeme while he was loading whatever he could find that might act as a sheep extraction tool into the back of the old Range Rover (our paddock basher). One look at Graeme and I knew this wasn’t going to be simple case of pulling the ewe to the edge of the dam where the ground is firm. Graeme was caked in the black, smelly muck up to his knees, with generous splatters reaching up to the top of his head! I tried not to breathe too often during the drive as we headed for the dam.
On arriving at the dam I was relieved to see only one ewe stuck there. She was up to her very generous middle in the stuff. Getting this ewe out was going to take a Herculean effort. She is one of our larger ewes and heavily pregnant with what looks like twins. At that moment she was resting with her two front legs on top of the mud, but with her back legs deep in the mire and no where to be seen. She didn’t look at all distressed; on the contrary, she looked for all the world like a drinker propped up at a bar and all she needed to complete the picture was a glass of beer in front of her. Her position in the mud explained Graeme’s mud caked clothes; he’d managed to turn her around and extract her two front legs by himself. Graeme lowered the gate he had brought onto the mud beside her while I scrambled down to the ewe, slipping and sliding in the garden clogs I’d slipped on for speed and regretting that I hadn’t taken the time to change into my farm boots. The ewe seemed to agree with me about my inappropriate footwear because she took one look at me sliding down the side of the dam, rolled her eyes and looked away with a pained expression on her muddy little face. While Graeme once again ventured onto the sloppy part to extract her back legs, I remained on firmer ground holding the ewe’s head out of the mire and offering reassuring words to keep her spirits up. Whenever we have a ewe in crisis I'm always there with soothing words and moral support.
Then Graeme gave me the bad news. He expected me to reverse the Range Rover down the side of the dam wall so that he could tie a rope to the gate and the tow bar and then I was to slowly, REMEMBER SLOWLY!!! drive back up the slope in low range and voila! the ewe would have a sled ride out of the mud. This plan was fraught with potential danger and difficulties. The side of the dam is very steep and I’d be heading straight for Graeme and the ewe! I took a deep breath, put on my stoic farmer’s face and did as I was instructed.
Of course the first thing that happened was that I found just how difficult it is to back down the slope of a dam. I managed this manoeuvre by keeping my foot on the brake and sort of reverse kangarooing down the slope – move a little bit, jump harder on the break and clutch, move a little bit, jump harder on the break and clutch. My technique left Graeme (an ex-rally driver) less than impressed, but I got to the desired distance from Graeme and the ewe without mowing them down or landing the car in the sticky mud in the process, so I was more than satisfied with my backing down the dam wall technique.
The gate was tied to the bumper bar and the next difficulty presented itself. How to drive “Slowly, REMEMBER SLOWLY!!!” up the side of the dam wall. Of course on my first half dozen attempts I went too fast (all of about 1 km an hour) and the gate simply slipped out from underneath the ewe leaving her and Graeme stuck in the mire behind. My attempts to convince Graeme that I was driving as slowly as I could without actually slipping backwards, were met with less than polite disbelief. I said a silent prayer that Justin would get here quickly and once again left the car to wallow about in the mud in order to help Graeme set up the gate/sled apparatus. The monotony of this procedure was sometimes alleviated by Graeme accidentally sinking his foot into the mud up to his calf. We then spent a few minutes trying to extract Graeme, rather than the ewe, from the quicksand like goo while he shouted at me to stand back because he didn’t want me stuck in the stuff too. At first I thought this was an example of how much he cared about me, but Graeme ruined this rosy dream by adding that he didn’t want to have to spend hours trying to extract me too!
Then, just when I was thinking that Justin had decided to seek out a non-farming family to adopt him rather than come and help us, I heard his car at the gate. With a little cheer (I didn’t have the energy left for a big cheer), I sat on the dam bank and waited for him to arrive. Justin, bless his cotton socks, had left the party immediately to come to our aid. The only problem with this was that he wore his brand new, very snazzy leather pants and shiny Doc Martins to the party. So here he was in all his glory, dressed to the nines and ready to help us if not enthusiastically, at least resignedly. He sort of blanched when he looked at the muddy state of his parents, but brave fellow that he is he slid down the dam wall to join us without hesitation.
Graeme took a minute to bring Justin up to speed on what we had tried and failed to do. Justin nodded wisely, offered suggestions and agreed to take over the driving of the Range Rover. Right there and then I was ready to write everyone else out of my will and leave all my worldly possessions to this wonderful boy. I swear I could see a halo shining over his head, but then again it could have been lack of oxygen to the brain from my exhaustion. Justin got into the car, started the engine and made ready to drive it up the bank. It was then that I realised that I didn’t want any child of mine, balancing precariously down the steep side of a dam wall with my husband directly behind the car. I shouted out something along these lines and Graeme nodded and moved a few steps to the left, and reminded me that the little bit of dam that still had water in it was very shallow and besides there was no way the car would reach the water if it slipped down the dam wall. It would bog up to the axles in the mud! A very comforting thought.
So with this reassurance ringing in his ears, Justin began to move the car up the side of the dam. I wish I could tell you that his first attempt was successful, but I’m afraid it was far from it. The sun had well and truly set before success was finally achieved, but achieved it was. The poor old ewe couldn’t believe she was on solid ground at first and just sat there with the same vague look on her face. Graeme and Justin mustered enough energy to help her to her feet. She realised she was free and with astounding ingratitude, took off with all the speed her tired body could muster (and she could muster more speed that any of us could), and headed back out into the paddock, meaning that Graeme was going to have to go find her and move her into another paddock so that we didn’t have to do this all over again in the morning.
After cleaning up as best he could, Justin gave us a quick goodbye and was gone before we had a chance to find some other fun way of sharing the night with him. Graeme headed back out on the bike to find the ewe and persuade her to move to a dam free paddock. I thought longingly of a hot bath, but with the lack of rain we’ve had I settled for a quick shower, organised a quick dinner for Graeme, and fell into bed without dinner.
I love farming. I really do … now can someone remind me exactly why I love it please?
I was sitting at the computer, having a friendly chat session with a friend when Graeme came tearing up to the window and shouted, “Sheep in the dam! Ring Justin and come and help now!!!” With a very dramatic “Got to go” message to my friend, I disconnected, rang Justin and followed Graeme to the shed, with pictures of half our stud flock wallowing up to their necks in sticky mud.
As you most probably know (I think I’ve mentioned it once or twice) “Spring Rock” is currently drought ravaged. Most of our dams have either dried up or are in the process of drying up. When a dam is in the process of drying up the edges become very sticky with sloppy mud up to a few metres deep. This is not your average, brown innocuous mud, oh no – this is slimy, oozy, very smelly, stagnant water, black mud, and it is this wonderful stuff that sheep seem to find irresistible. Once a sheep puts two feet into the mud they are trapped and being sheep they do whatever it takes to make their situation worse and the task of getting them out as difficult as possible.
I caught up with Graeme while he was loading whatever he could find that might act as a sheep extraction tool into the back of the old Range Rover (our paddock basher). One look at Graeme and I knew this wasn’t going to be simple case of pulling the ewe to the edge of the dam where the ground is firm. Graeme was caked in the black, smelly muck up to his knees, with generous splatters reaching up to the top of his head! I tried not to breathe too often during the drive as we headed for the dam.
On arriving at the dam I was relieved to see only one ewe stuck there. She was up to her very generous middle in the stuff. Getting this ewe out was going to take a Herculean effort. She is one of our larger ewes and heavily pregnant with what looks like twins. At that moment she was resting with her two front legs on top of the mud, but with her back legs deep in the mire and no where to be seen. She didn’t look at all distressed; on the contrary, she looked for all the world like a drinker propped up at a bar and all she needed to complete the picture was a glass of beer in front of her. Her position in the mud explained Graeme’s mud caked clothes; he’d managed to turn her around and extract her two front legs by himself. Graeme lowered the gate he had brought onto the mud beside her while I scrambled down to the ewe, slipping and sliding in the garden clogs I’d slipped on for speed and regretting that I hadn’t taken the time to change into my farm boots. The ewe seemed to agree with me about my inappropriate footwear because she took one look at me sliding down the side of the dam, rolled her eyes and looked away with a pained expression on her muddy little face. While Graeme once again ventured onto the sloppy part to extract her back legs, I remained on firmer ground holding the ewe’s head out of the mire and offering reassuring words to keep her spirits up. Whenever we have a ewe in crisis I'm always there with soothing words and moral support.
Then Graeme gave me the bad news. He expected me to reverse the Range Rover down the side of the dam wall so that he could tie a rope to the gate and the tow bar and then I was to slowly, REMEMBER SLOWLY!!! drive back up the slope in low range and voila! the ewe would have a sled ride out of the mud. This plan was fraught with potential danger and difficulties. The side of the dam is very steep and I’d be heading straight for Graeme and the ewe! I took a deep breath, put on my stoic farmer’s face and did as I was instructed.
Of course the first thing that happened was that I found just how difficult it is to back down the slope of a dam. I managed this manoeuvre by keeping my foot on the brake and sort of reverse kangarooing down the slope – move a little bit, jump harder on the break and clutch, move a little bit, jump harder on the break and clutch. My technique left Graeme (an ex-rally driver) less than impressed, but I got to the desired distance from Graeme and the ewe without mowing them down or landing the car in the sticky mud in the process, so I was more than satisfied with my backing down the dam wall technique.
The gate was tied to the bumper bar and the next difficulty presented itself. How to drive “Slowly, REMEMBER SLOWLY!!!” up the side of the dam wall. Of course on my first half dozen attempts I went too fast (all of about 1 km an hour) and the gate simply slipped out from underneath the ewe leaving her and Graeme stuck in the mire behind. My attempts to convince Graeme that I was driving as slowly as I could without actually slipping backwards, were met with less than polite disbelief. I said a silent prayer that Justin would get here quickly and once again left the car to wallow about in the mud in order to help Graeme set up the gate/sled apparatus. The monotony of this procedure was sometimes alleviated by Graeme accidentally sinking his foot into the mud up to his calf. We then spent a few minutes trying to extract Graeme, rather than the ewe, from the quicksand like goo while he shouted at me to stand back because he didn’t want me stuck in the stuff too. At first I thought this was an example of how much he cared about me, but Graeme ruined this rosy dream by adding that he didn’t want to have to spend hours trying to extract me too!
Then, just when I was thinking that Justin had decided to seek out a non-farming family to adopt him rather than come and help us, I heard his car at the gate. With a little cheer (I didn’t have the energy left for a big cheer), I sat on the dam bank and waited for him to arrive. Justin, bless his cotton socks, had left the party immediately to come to our aid. The only problem with this was that he wore his brand new, very snazzy leather pants and shiny Doc Martins to the party. So here he was in all his glory, dressed to the nines and ready to help us if not enthusiastically, at least resignedly. He sort of blanched when he looked at the muddy state of his parents, but brave fellow that he is he slid down the dam wall to join us without hesitation.
Graeme took a minute to bring Justin up to speed on what we had tried and failed to do. Justin nodded wisely, offered suggestions and agreed to take over the driving of the Range Rover. Right there and then I was ready to write everyone else out of my will and leave all my worldly possessions to this wonderful boy. I swear I could see a halo shining over his head, but then again it could have been lack of oxygen to the brain from my exhaustion. Justin got into the car, started the engine and made ready to drive it up the bank. It was then that I realised that I didn’t want any child of mine, balancing precariously down the steep side of a dam wall with my husband directly behind the car. I shouted out something along these lines and Graeme nodded and moved a few steps to the left, and reminded me that the little bit of dam that still had water in it was very shallow and besides there was no way the car would reach the water if it slipped down the dam wall. It would bog up to the axles in the mud! A very comforting thought.
So with this reassurance ringing in his ears, Justin began to move the car up the side of the dam. I wish I could tell you that his first attempt was successful, but I’m afraid it was far from it. The sun had well and truly set before success was finally achieved, but achieved it was. The poor old ewe couldn’t believe she was on solid ground at first and just sat there with the same vague look on her face. Graeme and Justin mustered enough energy to help her to her feet. She realised she was free and with astounding ingratitude, took off with all the speed her tired body could muster (and she could muster more speed that any of us could), and headed back out into the paddock, meaning that Graeme was going to have to go find her and move her into another paddock so that we didn’t have to do this all over again in the morning.
After cleaning up as best he could, Justin gave us a quick goodbye and was gone before we had a chance to find some other fun way of sharing the night with him. Graeme headed back out on the bike to find the ewe and persuade her to move to a dam free paddock. I thought longingly of a hot bath, but with the lack of rain we’ve had I settled for a quick shower, organised a quick dinner for Graeme, and fell into bed without dinner.
I love farming. I really do … now can someone remind me exactly why I love it please?
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Winter Is Almost Here
Winter is almost here at last. The days are getting shorter, the air has that sparkling, icy-misty look that only freezing winter days can produce and the countryside is finally turning green after months of brown. The reason I’m waxing lyrical about the cold weather is that winter is my favourite time of the year. In my opinion the only good thing about summer is the cricket matches. Take that away and all I’m left with is a menagerie of over heated animals all vying for the prime piece of real estate on the kitchen floor under the air conditioning duct.
In winter my thoughts turn to keeping the now decidedly chilly menagerie warm. The ferrets bring new worries as the days grow colder. They no longer lie in their cage looking like they are at their last gasp, rather they hibernate in their quilted polar fleece sleeping bag, coming out only to have dinner, seek the warmer climes of the house or, during one of Billy’s assaults on their cage, threatening to give Billy the thrashing of his life, if only he’d show some spunk and come into their cage and say that!
I have now added a hand spun, hand woven woollen table runner I made years ago during my spinning and weaving phase, to their bedding. I try to wrap the ferrets in their sleeping bag in this runner to add that extra layer of warmth. This entails going out into the freezing back yard, well after the sun has set, quietly opening the cage door, feeling around for the table runner without disturbing the sleeping furry ones and tucking them in for the night. If I disturb them Miette will come struggling out of the sleeping bag to find out what is going on in the hope that it’s Billy coming to start something. When she sees it’s only me, she’s perfectly happy to settle in for a chat. Persuading her to return to bed so I can go back into the warm house, is a lost cause. There’s nothing to be done but, return to the house and have another go in half an hour – when the night air will be even chillier. If I am very careful, I manage to tuck them in without disturbing the sociable Miette and once this little chore has been done, I go back inside with a clear conscience with only the TOD the duck and the galahs to worry about. So far I haven’t figured out a way to keep these feathered pets any warmer than they can keep themselves. Graeme assures me that the ferrets have thick winter coats to insulate them against much colder weather than any Australia can throw at them. He also says that the quilted sleeping bag with two layers of polar fleece and two layers of wool batting top and bottom, would be enough to keep me warm should I want to spend the night outside. This could be a veiled threat, but I’m too busy sorting out the cats to give it much attention.
Mum-Pus, Lancelot and Guinevere have different needs when the weather turns chilly. They spend their summer days lying on the kitchen floor within close proximity to the fridge and freezer’s cold blasts of air – always providing that Billy isn’t having an inside day. If Billy is amongst those present, the cats retire to the dining room, an extension off the kitchen with only the metal strip where the vinyl and carpet meet to indicate where the kitchen stops and the dining rooms begins, to poke their collective tongues out at Billy who’s not allowed to put one paw onto the carpet. Their winter days are spent following the sun around the lounge room carpet and cuffing any other cat who seems to have a better spot of sun. I repeatedly tell Mum-Puss that she is in dire need of parenting classes.
“No mother worth her salt,” I say to Mum-Puss, “digs her claws into one of her children because it has the softer chair or warmer patch of carpet.” Mum-Puss glares at me with her one beady eye and asks for help disengaging her claw that seems to have somehow become hooked into the body of her daughter or son.
Now don’t imagine for a second that Lancelot and Guinevere are the innocent parties in all this. They have far too much of their mother in them to be above such things as starting fights with mother or sibling just for the sheer hell of it. Their combative natures have led them to developed a very subtle way of letting me know it’s dinner time. For some unfathomable reason, as soon as 4.30 p.m. rolls around, the cat version of World War III begins in whatever room i amy be in. All three cats will wander through the house, in perfect friendship, searching for me. Once I've been located all hell breaks loose in the cat world. One minute all three cats are the picture of domestic bliss. Three little furry bodies intertwined in shades of black, white and grey lying on their pillows in front of the heater with not a thought in their heads except familial love. As soon as the clock indicates the dinner hour is approaching the peaceful scene is shattered with snarling, scratching and the most foul cat language you have ever heard. Heavens knows what it is they are saying to one another, but whatever it is it’s guaranteed to be R-rated! It’s times like this that I’m grateful I’m mono-linguistic. All this aggression disappears as soon as dinner is on the table (or in the cat’s case on the floor). Each cat has its own bowl and own space on the plastic place mat. Dishing out the food is an exact science. Others have tried but failed to master the intricate pattern required for all three cats to get their fair share of food while keeping peace in the feline community. I won’t go into the lengthy description of how to successfully feed the family, buy suffice to say it’s taken quite a while to perfect. Once the three tummies are full of the tinned food du jour they return to their fireside pillow, intertwine themselves once again and settle in for the night. Ah peace at last. The Spring Rock Terrors have settled down for the night and won’t return until 4.30 tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime they will keep up their strength with the never empty dish of dry cat food available to be munched at all times. Now all I have to contend with is Billy’s Winter Pass Times.
Billy, ever true to his Swiss heritage, is in his element in the winter time. This unfortunately means that while the rest of the pets are only interested in finding sunny spots around the yard or house and hibernating until summer, Billy is at his metabolic peak resulting in excess energy and mischief making. He spends his days between terrorising the chooks, stalking TOD, our drake and seeking out other less than desirable (from my point of view) ways of amusing himself.
The chook/duck chasing isn’t too bad when compared to his other pastimes. The hens are safely tucked away in their chook pen with seven or eight feet high wire between them and Billy, but this simple matter of logic hasn’t occurred to them yet. As soon as Billy begins his mad run from the back porch down to the chook yard, ears and jowls flopping as he goes, the chooks begin their crazy, panicked flight to anywhere other than where they are. Given that we have nine hens and one rooster, a fair bit of the chook pen is taken up with chooks when they are as we might term “at rest”. Therefore when these chooks (and rooster) begin literally flapping about they tend to ricochet off each other, the chook wire, hen house and the odd tree in their yard. This in turn causes them to panic further, taking fright at the sight of each other panicking and so on. It’s my belief that one day they will end up bouncing off each other and the various objects in their yard ad infinitum. Add to this TOD’s mini-panic on the outside of the chook yard and our winter back yard is definitely not a peaceful refuge for the summer haters among us.
When Billy’s other winter past time is considered though, I’d choose the panicking chooks and drake any day. With the longer nights Billy has searched for a new form of amusement that can be safely conducted from the confines of the back porch. He’s tried bowling Shadow, the Silky Terrier Type, over and sniffing her from head to tail while she’s in her prone condition. Needles to say Shadow doesn’t take this lying down – well actually she does take it lying down, but as soon as she can get up she takes her little fluffy dog revenge, bailing Billy up against the porch wall while snapping and snarling to let Billy know how she feels about his new found past-time. Billy, squashed against the wall, looking down at the little ball of fury, has all the appearance of a bully brought to book for his sins, promising never to harm undersized little dogs again.
Eventually, Billy turned to other, less risky ways of passing his winter nights. Billy has taken up singing, or in light of his Swiss ancestors, possibly yodelling. Now you’d be forgiven in thinking he’d be a baritone – what with the size of him and all, but no, Billy is a male soprano. He sits on the back porch yipping and howling to his heart’s content, happy in the knowledge that not only is he enjoying his own musical interlude, but he is bringing a little joy into the cold winter nights for his family. It’s obvious that Billy sees us in his mind’s eye sitting in our lounge room, tenderly smiling at each other while commenting on the beautiful musical tones emanating from Billy’s oversized lungs. He is so sure that we are as happy about his new-found talent as he is. When one of us goes outside to let Billy know our true feeling about his impromptu recital he turns towards us, leaves off his singing often mid yodel, and invites whichever music lover in his family who has come outside, to join in. The hurt look on his face when growled at to be quiet is truly heart rending. Maybe with a professional’s help, just maybe we could turn those teeth grating yowls to something bearable?
I’m off now to go and look through phone books to try to find coaches for Swiss yodelling.
In winter my thoughts turn to keeping the now decidedly chilly menagerie warm. The ferrets bring new worries as the days grow colder. They no longer lie in their cage looking like they are at their last gasp, rather they hibernate in their quilted polar fleece sleeping bag, coming out only to have dinner, seek the warmer climes of the house or, during one of Billy’s assaults on their cage, threatening to give Billy the thrashing of his life, if only he’d show some spunk and come into their cage and say that!
I have now added a hand spun, hand woven woollen table runner I made years ago during my spinning and weaving phase, to their bedding. I try to wrap the ferrets in their sleeping bag in this runner to add that extra layer of warmth. This entails going out into the freezing back yard, well after the sun has set, quietly opening the cage door, feeling around for the table runner without disturbing the sleeping furry ones and tucking them in for the night. If I disturb them Miette will come struggling out of the sleeping bag to find out what is going on in the hope that it’s Billy coming to start something. When she sees it’s only me, she’s perfectly happy to settle in for a chat. Persuading her to return to bed so I can go back into the warm house, is a lost cause. There’s nothing to be done but, return to the house and have another go in half an hour – when the night air will be even chillier. If I am very careful, I manage to tuck them in without disturbing the sociable Miette and once this little chore has been done, I go back inside with a clear conscience with only the TOD the duck and the galahs to worry about. So far I haven’t figured out a way to keep these feathered pets any warmer than they can keep themselves. Graeme assures me that the ferrets have thick winter coats to insulate them against much colder weather than any Australia can throw at them. He also says that the quilted sleeping bag with two layers of polar fleece and two layers of wool batting top and bottom, would be enough to keep me warm should I want to spend the night outside. This could be a veiled threat, but I’m too busy sorting out the cats to give it much attention.
Mum-Pus, Lancelot and Guinevere have different needs when the weather turns chilly. They spend their summer days lying on the kitchen floor within close proximity to the fridge and freezer’s cold blasts of air – always providing that Billy isn’t having an inside day. If Billy is amongst those present, the cats retire to the dining room, an extension off the kitchen with only the metal strip where the vinyl and carpet meet to indicate where the kitchen stops and the dining rooms begins, to poke their collective tongues out at Billy who’s not allowed to put one paw onto the carpet. Their winter days are spent following the sun around the lounge room carpet and cuffing any other cat who seems to have a better spot of sun. I repeatedly tell Mum-Puss that she is in dire need of parenting classes.
“No mother worth her salt,” I say to Mum-Puss, “digs her claws into one of her children because it has the softer chair or warmer patch of carpet.” Mum-Puss glares at me with her one beady eye and asks for help disengaging her claw that seems to have somehow become hooked into the body of her daughter or son.
Now don’t imagine for a second that Lancelot and Guinevere are the innocent parties in all this. They have far too much of their mother in them to be above such things as starting fights with mother or sibling just for the sheer hell of it. Their combative natures have led them to developed a very subtle way of letting me know it’s dinner time. For some unfathomable reason, as soon as 4.30 p.m. rolls around, the cat version of World War III begins in whatever room i amy be in. All three cats will wander through the house, in perfect friendship, searching for me. Once I've been located all hell breaks loose in the cat world. One minute all three cats are the picture of domestic bliss. Three little furry bodies intertwined in shades of black, white and grey lying on their pillows in front of the heater with not a thought in their heads except familial love. As soon as the clock indicates the dinner hour is approaching the peaceful scene is shattered with snarling, scratching and the most foul cat language you have ever heard. Heavens knows what it is they are saying to one another, but whatever it is it’s guaranteed to be R-rated! It’s times like this that I’m grateful I’m mono-linguistic. All this aggression disappears as soon as dinner is on the table (or in the cat’s case on the floor). Each cat has its own bowl and own space on the plastic place mat. Dishing out the food is an exact science. Others have tried but failed to master the intricate pattern required for all three cats to get their fair share of food while keeping peace in the feline community. I won’t go into the lengthy description of how to successfully feed the family, buy suffice to say it’s taken quite a while to perfect. Once the three tummies are full of the tinned food du jour they return to their fireside pillow, intertwine themselves once again and settle in for the night. Ah peace at last. The Spring Rock Terrors have settled down for the night and won’t return until 4.30 tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime they will keep up their strength with the never empty dish of dry cat food available to be munched at all times. Now all I have to contend with is Billy’s Winter Pass Times.
Billy, ever true to his Swiss heritage, is in his element in the winter time. This unfortunately means that while the rest of the pets are only interested in finding sunny spots around the yard or house and hibernating until summer, Billy is at his metabolic peak resulting in excess energy and mischief making. He spends his days between terrorising the chooks, stalking TOD, our drake and seeking out other less than desirable (from my point of view) ways of amusing himself.
The chook/duck chasing isn’t too bad when compared to his other pastimes. The hens are safely tucked away in their chook pen with seven or eight feet high wire between them and Billy, but this simple matter of logic hasn’t occurred to them yet. As soon as Billy begins his mad run from the back porch down to the chook yard, ears and jowls flopping as he goes, the chooks begin their crazy, panicked flight to anywhere other than where they are. Given that we have nine hens and one rooster, a fair bit of the chook pen is taken up with chooks when they are as we might term “at rest”. Therefore when these chooks (and rooster) begin literally flapping about they tend to ricochet off each other, the chook wire, hen house and the odd tree in their yard. This in turn causes them to panic further, taking fright at the sight of each other panicking and so on. It’s my belief that one day they will end up bouncing off each other and the various objects in their yard ad infinitum. Add to this TOD’s mini-panic on the outside of the chook yard and our winter back yard is definitely not a peaceful refuge for the summer haters among us.
When Billy’s other winter past time is considered though, I’d choose the panicking chooks and drake any day. With the longer nights Billy has searched for a new form of amusement that can be safely conducted from the confines of the back porch. He’s tried bowling Shadow, the Silky Terrier Type, over and sniffing her from head to tail while she’s in her prone condition. Needles to say Shadow doesn’t take this lying down – well actually she does take it lying down, but as soon as she can get up she takes her little fluffy dog revenge, bailing Billy up against the porch wall while snapping and snarling to let Billy know how she feels about his new found past-time. Billy, squashed against the wall, looking down at the little ball of fury, has all the appearance of a bully brought to book for his sins, promising never to harm undersized little dogs again.
Eventually, Billy turned to other, less risky ways of passing his winter nights. Billy has taken up singing, or in light of his Swiss ancestors, possibly yodelling. Now you’d be forgiven in thinking he’d be a baritone – what with the size of him and all, but no, Billy is a male soprano. He sits on the back porch yipping and howling to his heart’s content, happy in the knowledge that not only is he enjoying his own musical interlude, but he is bringing a little joy into the cold winter nights for his family. It’s obvious that Billy sees us in his mind’s eye sitting in our lounge room, tenderly smiling at each other while commenting on the beautiful musical tones emanating from Billy’s oversized lungs. He is so sure that we are as happy about his new-found talent as he is. When one of us goes outside to let Billy know our true feeling about his impromptu recital he turns towards us, leaves off his singing often mid yodel, and invites whichever music lover in his family who has come outside, to join in. The hurt look on his face when growled at to be quiet is truly heart rending. Maybe with a professional’s help, just maybe we could turn those teeth grating yowls to something bearable?
I’m off now to go and look through phone books to try to find coaches for Swiss yodelling.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Billy Joined My Quilting Group
Yesterday Billy decided to join my quilting group. Five lovely ladies and myself meet here once a month usually, but weekly during January. My neighbour Aileen was the only one who could make it yesterday with some of the others still cleaning up after the Junee fires and others not feeling too well. With the temperatures well into the 40’s Billy usually spends his days lying on the kitchen floor underneath the air conditioning duct. I was a bit worried about inviting him in while I had visitors, but Aileen likes Billy (one of the quilt group members is actually frightened of him!!) so I thought I'd risk it.
Early in the morning, before the heat really hit us, I gave each of the dogs a frozen bone, sort of like a doggy ice-block. The standard routine for dishing out bones is to give Billy a huge marrow bone to keep him occupied while I give Shadow a smaller bone and lock her in the laundry so she doesn’t have to stand guard over it while Billy tries to steal it. Then it’s time to give the Kelpies their bones. I manage this tricky manoeuvrer by constantly feinting stealing Billy’s bone so he doesn’t feel confident enough to run down the porch steps and grab the Kelpies’ bones. The Kelpies know to take off with their treats as soon as they get them, and peace reigns supreme to the sound of bones crunching from all directions. Once the temperature hovered around the high 30’s it was time for Billy and Shadow to come inside. I opened the laundry door to invite them in. Shadow wandered over to the back door, sniffed Billy's bone and decided the cool air was the better option and Billy, who had been trying to push past me, turned and made a bee line (b-line?) for Shadow's bone in the laundry.
He then faced a huge dilemma. The kitchen door was open and he was finally being invited in. Did he steal the bone and miss out on coming inside or come inside and miss out on Shadow’s bone? He stood in the laundry door way, a picture of indecision with his head swaying back and forward between the bone and kitchen door. Decisions, decisions. What was a dog to do? Then inspiration struck. Billy lunged at the bone, picked it up in one quick movement and headed for the back door. I was too quick for him and told him to finish the bone first and slammed the door. Once the crunching stopped I allowed the thief to come in and enjoy the cooler air.
All is usually fine once the dogs are settled in the kitchen. Shadow, with one evil glance at Billy stretches out under the air conditioning duct, finds a cool spot on the floor and grumbles about huge furry lumps who take unfair advantage of their size and hog all the coolest air, but apart from the Silky grumbles, an air of quiet and calm descends on the kitchen.
Not so yesterday. It appears that Billy didn’t feel quite secure in his being able to stay in the kitchen. It could be he thought Aileen might voice a protest about wall to wall St. Bernards on the kitchen floor, or he might have been playing for the sympathy vote from a visitor, but whatever it was the decibel rating in the kitchen regularly came close to that of a sonic boom. As Billy lay prone, soaking up the breeze from the air-conditioning duct, he began to pant. No problem with that, after all dogs have to pant to cool themselves. I even ignored the lolling tongue and river of drool on the floor while he indulged in his panting session. But, did he stop at just panting? Not my Billy. The pants developed a definite grunting undertone and soon it sounded like a mob of pigs had invaded the kitchen. With each pant and grunt the nose level increased until Aileen and I had trouble hearing each other. Graeme, who hasn’t joined the quilting group, but was doing inside farm work today (accounts and such) began adding his grumbles to the general cacophony. Eventually I’d have enough of the noise, say “Billy!” in my loudest, sternest voice and Billy would go back to almost silent panting. Then, sllowly but surely the grunts were re-introduced and the cycle began again.
Aileen, true friend she is, found the whole thing very amusing and had a good laugh. Billy immediately recognised this as a sign of support for his overacting and rushed over to the silver strip separating the carpet in the dining area from the vinyl floor in the kitchen. He knows he’s not allowed to put a foot on the carpet and usually respects this rule. The problem is that with his toes on the silver strip, while he’s technically still in the kitchen his head overhangs the carpet. You can see the problem here can’t you? Billy’s toes aren’t the problem, his toes don’t leak – his head does (or more accurately his huge mouth does). Soon, strings of drool were heading south towards my lovely cream carpet while he smiled at Aileen and tried to garner sympathy for a poor unloved dog forced to live in this heat. I jumped up and pushed the offending head back onto the vinyl area, getting my arms bathed in drool, and reminded Billy of The Rule. The Rule is that when inside Billy has to sit with a towel close by so that it can either catch the drool, or be close at hand to at least wipe it up. The problem with The Rule is similar to the problem with the No Feet On The Carpet Rule. Billy is more than happy to stick close to the towel, if I really insist, so much in fact that he’s usually sitting on it, and again, his back end isn’t the end that leaks! Also, with the weight of a large St. Bernard on the towel, it’s very difficult to retrieve it to wipe up the drool puddles.
Each time Graeme or Aileen wanted to go to the kitchen I’d race ahead, indulge in a sort of one sided tug of war with Billy in an effort to get the towel out from under him, and wipe over the floor. Not because Aileen would complain (although Graeme would!), but because I’m aware that few people are as tolerant of dog drool as I am, and heaven forbid that either Aileen or Graeme slipped on the slippery stuff and landed in a puddle! It just didn’t bare thinking about. Billy was always helpful during my cleaning up sessions. He followed me round pointing out spots I’d missed, while failing to notice that he was actually making these new spots as he went.
When lunch time arrived Billy and Shadow were banished to the back porch until all the food was eaten. This is because Billy is ever the helpful St. Bernard - he’ll tell you it’s in his breeding to help whenever possible, and he’s more than happy to place his huge head on the kitchen counter and sniff the food to make sure it’s hasn’t gone bad. He doesn’t steal the food, mind you, he’s far too honourable for that! But, by the time the food has been thoroughly sniffed, no one else wants it. So the battle to de-Billy the kitchen began. Shadow is always first out. With the air a of martyr about to face the firing squad Shadow hunches her shoulders and marches out to the oven like back porch. She doesn’t let on that she knows the laundry floor is considerably cooler and where she’ll spend her time until she’s allowed in again, that would ruin the whole impressive martyr act, so with the bravest look she can muster, she leave the kitchen and the fun begins.
Billy develops a strange condition when he comes inside. He can no longer understand humans if those humans are saying, "Outside!" no matter how those humans try communicating with him. I tried verbally, loud verbally, very loud verbally and finally sign language (I grabbed his collar and started pulling). I managed to get Billy as far as the back door and there he stopped. He splayed his legs and just refused to budge another inch. Let me tell you when a 75 kg Billy refuses to budge, budge he doesn’t! So there he stood, spreading drool and winter coat everywhere. I finally decided to resort to bribery and waved a cup of cat kibble in his face. Billy loves cat kibble - he'll even ignore the ferrets for the few seconds it takes him to scoff the kibble. Just like his earlier dilemma with Shadow’s bone and the kitchen floor, Billy was torn between the kibble and the cool air and couldn’t make the decision. He did have the bright idea of trying to get the kibble from my hand while maintaining his hold on the kitchen floor, but apart from having me in stitches at his attempts to stretch his neck as far as it would go while keeping the rest of his body well and truly in the kitchen, we didn’t make any headway towards outside. I eventually had to call in the big guns. Graeme grabbed Billy’s collar and it was all over in a matter of seconds. The kitchen was now Billy free. It did mean I had to empty the teapot on the front garden rather than the back, but otherwise everything was fine and we enjoyed our lunch while trying not to imagine the pitiful sight of a melting giant, outside the back door.
As soon as lunch finished Billy was invited back in. He nearly bowled me over in his eagerness to get the best spot on the kitchen floor again. Shadow followed at a more sedate pace and settled quickly. Not so Billy. He tried first one spot and then another, letting me know that now he’d lost his favourite spot and couldn’t find it. That would teach me a lesson to go wantonly shoving dogs outside in the middle of the day! How could I live with myself now that I was witnessing this pathetic little scene? I coldheartedly returned to the lounge room after a quick reminder about The Rule, and with no audience to impress, Billy settled in his usual spot to begin his panting and grunting routine. It wasn’t long before everything was back to “normal” and cries of “Billy!” rent the air from time to time to regain peace and quiet, even if only temporarily. All in all I didn't manage a lot of sewing.
And how do I know that this was a special act for my visitor? Billy is lying under the air conditioning duct as I write – there’s not a peep out of him; not a grunt or even a pant to be heard.
Early in the morning, before the heat really hit us, I gave each of the dogs a frozen bone, sort of like a doggy ice-block. The standard routine for dishing out bones is to give Billy a huge marrow bone to keep him occupied while I give Shadow a smaller bone and lock her in the laundry so she doesn’t have to stand guard over it while Billy tries to steal it. Then it’s time to give the Kelpies their bones. I manage this tricky manoeuvrer by constantly feinting stealing Billy’s bone so he doesn’t feel confident enough to run down the porch steps and grab the Kelpies’ bones. The Kelpies know to take off with their treats as soon as they get them, and peace reigns supreme to the sound of bones crunching from all directions. Once the temperature hovered around the high 30’s it was time for Billy and Shadow to come inside. I opened the laundry door to invite them in. Shadow wandered over to the back door, sniffed Billy's bone and decided the cool air was the better option and Billy, who had been trying to push past me, turned and made a bee line (b-line?) for Shadow's bone in the laundry.
He then faced a huge dilemma. The kitchen door was open and he was finally being invited in. Did he steal the bone and miss out on coming inside or come inside and miss out on Shadow’s bone? He stood in the laundry door way, a picture of indecision with his head swaying back and forward between the bone and kitchen door. Decisions, decisions. What was a dog to do? Then inspiration struck. Billy lunged at the bone, picked it up in one quick movement and headed for the back door. I was too quick for him and told him to finish the bone first and slammed the door. Once the crunching stopped I allowed the thief to come in and enjoy the cooler air.
All is usually fine once the dogs are settled in the kitchen. Shadow, with one evil glance at Billy stretches out under the air conditioning duct, finds a cool spot on the floor and grumbles about huge furry lumps who take unfair advantage of their size and hog all the coolest air, but apart from the Silky grumbles, an air of quiet and calm descends on the kitchen.
Not so yesterday. It appears that Billy didn’t feel quite secure in his being able to stay in the kitchen. It could be he thought Aileen might voice a protest about wall to wall St. Bernards on the kitchen floor, or he might have been playing for the sympathy vote from a visitor, but whatever it was the decibel rating in the kitchen regularly came close to that of a sonic boom. As Billy lay prone, soaking up the breeze from the air-conditioning duct, he began to pant. No problem with that, after all dogs have to pant to cool themselves. I even ignored the lolling tongue and river of drool on the floor while he indulged in his panting session. But, did he stop at just panting? Not my Billy. The pants developed a definite grunting undertone and soon it sounded like a mob of pigs had invaded the kitchen. With each pant and grunt the nose level increased until Aileen and I had trouble hearing each other. Graeme, who hasn’t joined the quilting group, but was doing inside farm work today (accounts and such) began adding his grumbles to the general cacophony. Eventually I’d have enough of the noise, say “Billy!” in my loudest, sternest voice and Billy would go back to almost silent panting. Then, sllowly but surely the grunts were re-introduced and the cycle began again.
Aileen, true friend she is, found the whole thing very amusing and had a good laugh. Billy immediately recognised this as a sign of support for his overacting and rushed over to the silver strip separating the carpet in the dining area from the vinyl floor in the kitchen. He knows he’s not allowed to put a foot on the carpet and usually respects this rule. The problem is that with his toes on the silver strip, while he’s technically still in the kitchen his head overhangs the carpet. You can see the problem here can’t you? Billy’s toes aren’t the problem, his toes don’t leak – his head does (or more accurately his huge mouth does). Soon, strings of drool were heading south towards my lovely cream carpet while he smiled at Aileen and tried to garner sympathy for a poor unloved dog forced to live in this heat. I jumped up and pushed the offending head back onto the vinyl area, getting my arms bathed in drool, and reminded Billy of The Rule. The Rule is that when inside Billy has to sit with a towel close by so that it can either catch the drool, or be close at hand to at least wipe it up. The problem with The Rule is similar to the problem with the No Feet On The Carpet Rule. Billy is more than happy to stick close to the towel, if I really insist, so much in fact that he’s usually sitting on it, and again, his back end isn’t the end that leaks! Also, with the weight of a large St. Bernard on the towel, it’s very difficult to retrieve it to wipe up the drool puddles.
Each time Graeme or Aileen wanted to go to the kitchen I’d race ahead, indulge in a sort of one sided tug of war with Billy in an effort to get the towel out from under him, and wipe over the floor. Not because Aileen would complain (although Graeme would!), but because I’m aware that few people are as tolerant of dog drool as I am, and heaven forbid that either Aileen or Graeme slipped on the slippery stuff and landed in a puddle! It just didn’t bare thinking about. Billy was always helpful during my cleaning up sessions. He followed me round pointing out spots I’d missed, while failing to notice that he was actually making these new spots as he went.
When lunch time arrived Billy and Shadow were banished to the back porch until all the food was eaten. This is because Billy is ever the helpful St. Bernard - he’ll tell you it’s in his breeding to help whenever possible, and he’s more than happy to place his huge head on the kitchen counter and sniff the food to make sure it’s hasn’t gone bad. He doesn’t steal the food, mind you, he’s far too honourable for that! But, by the time the food has been thoroughly sniffed, no one else wants it. So the battle to de-Billy the kitchen began. Shadow is always first out. With the air a of martyr about to face the firing squad Shadow hunches her shoulders and marches out to the oven like back porch. She doesn’t let on that she knows the laundry floor is considerably cooler and where she’ll spend her time until she’s allowed in again, that would ruin the whole impressive martyr act, so with the bravest look she can muster, she leave the kitchen and the fun begins.
Billy develops a strange condition when he comes inside. He can no longer understand humans if those humans are saying, "Outside!" no matter how those humans try communicating with him. I tried verbally, loud verbally, very loud verbally and finally sign language (I grabbed his collar and started pulling). I managed to get Billy as far as the back door and there he stopped. He splayed his legs and just refused to budge another inch. Let me tell you when a 75 kg Billy refuses to budge, budge he doesn’t! So there he stood, spreading drool and winter coat everywhere. I finally decided to resort to bribery and waved a cup of cat kibble in his face. Billy loves cat kibble - he'll even ignore the ferrets for the few seconds it takes him to scoff the kibble. Just like his earlier dilemma with Shadow’s bone and the kitchen floor, Billy was torn between the kibble and the cool air and couldn’t make the decision. He did have the bright idea of trying to get the kibble from my hand while maintaining his hold on the kitchen floor, but apart from having me in stitches at his attempts to stretch his neck as far as it would go while keeping the rest of his body well and truly in the kitchen, we didn’t make any headway towards outside. I eventually had to call in the big guns. Graeme grabbed Billy’s collar and it was all over in a matter of seconds. The kitchen was now Billy free. It did mean I had to empty the teapot on the front garden rather than the back, but otherwise everything was fine and we enjoyed our lunch while trying not to imagine the pitiful sight of a melting giant, outside the back door.
As soon as lunch finished Billy was invited back in. He nearly bowled me over in his eagerness to get the best spot on the kitchen floor again. Shadow followed at a more sedate pace and settled quickly. Not so Billy. He tried first one spot and then another, letting me know that now he’d lost his favourite spot and couldn’t find it. That would teach me a lesson to go wantonly shoving dogs outside in the middle of the day! How could I live with myself now that I was witnessing this pathetic little scene? I coldheartedly returned to the lounge room after a quick reminder about The Rule, and with no audience to impress, Billy settled in his usual spot to begin his panting and grunting routine. It wasn’t long before everything was back to “normal” and cries of “Billy!” rent the air from time to time to regain peace and quiet, even if only temporarily. All in all I didn't manage a lot of sewing.
And how do I know that this was a special act for my visitor? Billy is lying under the air conditioning duct as I write – there’s not a peep out of him; not a grunt or even a pant to be heard.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Please Take Care When Using Our Facilities
We are expecting visitors in the next week or so and Billy is going to be so excited with all these people staying here! He just loves visitors. Shadow on the other hand will retire to the laundry and grumble at anyone who has the temerity to use the toilet.
Toilet visits here are fraught with problems. There is little privacy when a visitor wants to use our one and only toilet, which is located in the laundry on the porch outside the back door. It is wise for visitors to announce their intentions to us so that we can take the necessary actions to safeguard their visit to the loo.
When a visitor needs to use the "facilities" we have to de-Billy the laundry first. This is harder than it sounds. Billy likes nothing better than to accompany those visiting the loo and offering any form of assistance they might (or even might not) want. Putting his head in their lap and looking up at them with mournful eyes, while they are seated is his favourite way of helping out, meaning that one rises with a patch of wet drool on one's bare legs. He then leans against you while you try to wipe this off and "adjust your clothing". Billy has been known to knock people sideways during this delicate procedure. Luckily no-one has landed in the actual toilet bowl, although I did come perilously close one time (Don't ask! I don't want to talk about it.).
Lately he has developed a new strategy that is only slightly more acceptable than his head on the lap technique. Billy now sits down beside whoever is unfortunate enough to be using the facilities and looks for all the world like he's planning on behaving himself. As soon as you are lulled into a false sense of security Billy begins his new line of attack. He slowly stands, still not looking at you, and backs up. Before you know it you are up close and personal with Billy's back end, his tail wagging somewhere around your knees if you are lucky, somewhere around your face if you are not. The first worrying thought is that Billy is preparing to back up with a view to sitting on your lap while you are a captive audience. You can rest easy on this score. Billy has never yet actually sat on someone's lap while they are visiting our toilet. No, what Billy wants is that special spot at the base of his tail scratched. If you refuse to participate in this favourite pastime of Billy's he believes you haven't had enough encouragement and begins to back up closer and closer until you are leaning back as far as the cistern will let you. Occasionally Billy will look over his shoulder with a "What's wrong back there? Why isn't anything happening base of tail wise?" look on his face.
I've tried pushing his rump out of the way, I've tried ignoring him, I've tried rousing on him. Nothing works. Billy continues to live in hope. Why don't I put him out when I enter the laundry you ask? Because I am such a sucker for a pair of big sad eyes that promise to stay right where they are, along with the rest of the dog, on the floor over near the washing machine and far, far away from the toilet. Sometimes he actually does stay put leading me to hope that that will happen again next time. It rarely does.
Once you survived whichever stratagem Billy has chose and you have redressed yourself it's time to wash your hands. You have to negotiate the distance from one end of the laundry to the other - a total of about three feet. This is much harder than it sounds because Billy is there with you all the way. Exchanging pleasantries and doing a lot more leaning as you try to move those few vital feet to the sink. Giving Billy a pat and telling him he's a good boy (an out and out lie, but by this time you are desperate to wash you hands and get out of there!) will only result in Billy dropping to the floor in front of you and exposing large areas of tummy to be rubbed. For such a huge dog he always manages to perform this little feat with surprising agility, meaning that he is on the floor in no time flat, taking up all the available space including where your feet are at the moment. This results in the toiletee once again being in grave danger of falling over. The bright side of this you quickly see is that you have plenty of soft, squishy St Bernard to land on when you do reach the floor. The downside you only discover when you land. Billy is ever helpful (it's the St Bernard Way!) and is more than happy to give you some welcoming licks as you land with a thud, and lots of drool to be going on with. As you struggle to regain your feet, you realise that Billy is using his front paws to bat at you in an attempt to pull you back down for some reason. Then it dawns on you - you haven't patted his tummy and this is his subtle way of telling you so.
So you give his tummy a rub, climb back on to your feet and finally gain the longed for laundry sink. You are able to wash your hands and leave the laundry with only a few pawing motions from the supine Billy making you buckle at the knees.
Is it any wonder we rush out to de-Billy the laundry before visitors enter?
And what is Shadow doing all this time? She is lying on her bed, glaring at the visitor and grumbling about this invasion of her personal territory as I mentioned earlier. She is blames the toilet user for all this mayhem and offers no sympathy what so ever. Shadow expects bad behaviour from Billy at all times so she tends to blame those who actually supply Billy with the means to behave badly, rather than Billy himself. She leaves visitors in no doubt that they should show some self control and wait until they get home to relieve themselves - regardless of how many days they are visiting here!!
Now, who else would like to come to Spring Rock for a visit??
Toilet visits here are fraught with problems. There is little privacy when a visitor wants to use our one and only toilet, which is located in the laundry on the porch outside the back door. It is wise for visitors to announce their intentions to us so that we can take the necessary actions to safeguard their visit to the loo.
When a visitor needs to use the "facilities" we have to de-Billy the laundry first. This is harder than it sounds. Billy likes nothing better than to accompany those visiting the loo and offering any form of assistance they might (or even might not) want. Putting his head in their lap and looking up at them with mournful eyes, while they are seated is his favourite way of helping out, meaning that one rises with a patch of wet drool on one's bare legs. He then leans against you while you try to wipe this off and "adjust your clothing". Billy has been known to knock people sideways during this delicate procedure. Luckily no-one has landed in the actual toilet bowl, although I did come perilously close one time (Don't ask! I don't want to talk about it.).
Lately he has developed a new strategy that is only slightly more acceptable than his head on the lap technique. Billy now sits down beside whoever is unfortunate enough to be using the facilities and looks for all the world like he's planning on behaving himself. As soon as you are lulled into a false sense of security Billy begins his new line of attack. He slowly stands, still not looking at you, and backs up. Before you know it you are up close and personal with Billy's back end, his tail wagging somewhere around your knees if you are lucky, somewhere around your face if you are not. The first worrying thought is that Billy is preparing to back up with a view to sitting on your lap while you are a captive audience. You can rest easy on this score. Billy has never yet actually sat on someone's lap while they are visiting our toilet. No, what Billy wants is that special spot at the base of his tail scratched. If you refuse to participate in this favourite pastime of Billy's he believes you haven't had enough encouragement and begins to back up closer and closer until you are leaning back as far as the cistern will let you. Occasionally Billy will look over his shoulder with a "What's wrong back there? Why isn't anything happening base of tail wise?" look on his face.
I've tried pushing his rump out of the way, I've tried ignoring him, I've tried rousing on him. Nothing works. Billy continues to live in hope. Why don't I put him out when I enter the laundry you ask? Because I am such a sucker for a pair of big sad eyes that promise to stay right where they are, along with the rest of the dog, on the floor over near the washing machine and far, far away from the toilet. Sometimes he actually does stay put leading me to hope that that will happen again next time. It rarely does.
Once you survived whichever stratagem Billy has chose and you have redressed yourself it's time to wash your hands. You have to negotiate the distance from one end of the laundry to the other - a total of about three feet. This is much harder than it sounds because Billy is there with you all the way. Exchanging pleasantries and doing a lot more leaning as you try to move those few vital feet to the sink. Giving Billy a pat and telling him he's a good boy (an out and out lie, but by this time you are desperate to wash you hands and get out of there!) will only result in Billy dropping to the floor in front of you and exposing large areas of tummy to be rubbed. For such a huge dog he always manages to perform this little feat with surprising agility, meaning that he is on the floor in no time flat, taking up all the available space including where your feet are at the moment. This results in the toiletee once again being in grave danger of falling over. The bright side of this you quickly see is that you have plenty of soft, squishy St Bernard to land on when you do reach the floor. The downside you only discover when you land. Billy is ever helpful (it's the St Bernard Way!) and is more than happy to give you some welcoming licks as you land with a thud, and lots of drool to be going on with. As you struggle to regain your feet, you realise that Billy is using his front paws to bat at you in an attempt to pull you back down for some reason. Then it dawns on you - you haven't patted his tummy and this is his subtle way of telling you so.
So you give his tummy a rub, climb back on to your feet and finally gain the longed for laundry sink. You are able to wash your hands and leave the laundry with only a few pawing motions from the supine Billy making you buckle at the knees.
Is it any wonder we rush out to de-Billy the laundry before visitors enter?
And what is Shadow doing all this time? She is lying on her bed, glaring at the visitor and grumbling about this invasion of her personal territory as I mentioned earlier. She is blames the toilet user for all this mayhem and offers no sympathy what so ever. Shadow expects bad behaviour from Billy at all times so she tends to blame those who actually supply Billy with the means to behave badly, rather than Billy himself. She leaves visitors in no doubt that they should show some self control and wait until they get home to relieve themselves - regardless of how many days they are visiting here!!
Now, who else would like to come to Spring Rock for a visit??
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