Billy & Emu BFF - Well Maybe ...

Billy is now as deaf as a post and I'm teaching him sign language. Silly dog could have pretended not to understand what I meant when I pointed to the laundry (the place Billy has to go when he's in trouble), but I suppose a combination of the look on my face, hinting that I wouldn't put up with any gaff from an oversized dog and the fact that he felt so guilty, he immediately slunk off laundryward as soon as I pointed to it. He sits there now, brooding on the unfairness of a world where new, fluffy roosters are imported into the menagerie and an innocent St Bernard isn't allowed a taste.

Emu, the Chinese Silky rooster has come to take up residence in our chook pen. Emu hails from Camden way where he lived with another rooster and a harem of hens on an acre property owned by friends of my daughter.. Unfortunately Emu likes to greet the morning long before sun up each day and does so at the top of his lungs. Neighbours don't care that Emu is a beautiful fellow and is just doing what nature dictates a rooster do. They, the neighbours complained and kept complaining until it was obvious that Emu had to go. Luckily for Emu I was up at Camden the weekend a home needed to be found for him. I was attending my grandsons' birthday party, minding my own business, when without quite realising how it happened I became the proud owner of Emu.

I gently broke the news to Graeme while still at the party. I used to wait for a quiet moment to inform Graeme of any additions to our animal population, but lately I've discovered that confessing in public isn't only good for the soul, Graeme is usually too preoccupied with whatever conversation he is having to really register a protest - or maybe he has finally realised the futility of protesting - whichever the reason, Graeme barely raised a murmur before returning to his conversation about cars and their respective tyres.

So, Emu was transported to Spring Rock and set up home in the chook pen. At first there were the usual sorting out of pecking orders to endure. Emu spent the first week in a makeshift small yard within the larger yard, where Adonis, the resident rooster, and the girls could meet him without getting physical. Emu was used to be the second rooster in the yard so he had no aspirations to move up in the pecking order. After he was released to join the gang, he settled in quickly at the very bottom of the pecking order resigned himself to a boring life being bossed by rooster and hens alike.

Billy had noted Emu's arrival almost as soon as he was released. Billy at first spent every waking hour with his nose pressed against the chook wire, trying to figure out what exactly had come to stay. Billy pays no attention what so ever to the rest of the chooks in the yard. Common old laying hens and accompanying rooster hold no interest for him. Emu on the other hand, looked to good to ignore. Emu didn't help the situation either. One could say he actually encourages Billy to visit daily. While Billy sat staring at the fluffy one, Emu from his little yard, glanced back and wondered what Billy was, I'm sure. The day Emu was set free to roam the entire chook pen was a red letter day for both of them. Billy could hardly contain his excitement. Now he'd get to see exactly what this fluffy thing was and hopefully manage a taste or two while he was at it. Emu seemed eager to help out with these aspirations.

The day Billy began to learn sign language came about because I found him settled in for the day, stretched out at his ease along the outside of the chook pen, eyeing Emu longingly. Billy was staring at Emu with evil intent obvious in every fibre of his being. He was employing his never take your eyes off the target and don't blink stare. Emu, on the other side of the wire was thrilled. You see Emu thinks he's made a new friend. He was sitting on the safe side of the wire, just a few inches away from it in fact, looking back at Billy and clucking quietly to himself (or maybe to Billy, who knows). He looked like he too had settled in for a long and delightful day conversing with a new friend.

Emu firmly believes in the noble side of Billy and would be shocked if he could read Billy's mind. Billy has no noble thoughts where Emu is concerned I'm sure, so Billy was banished to the laundry to think about his sins and adjust his attitude to little fluffy members of the family. Each day Billy can still be found sitting outside the chook pen, drooling over the chicken dinner on the other side of the wire while Emu rushes up to the wire to get close enough to commune with Billy. They sit and stare at each other for ages until I make the hike all the way to the chook pen and angrily point to the laundry. I'm worried that Emu will be tempted to poke his little head through the wire to chat more easily with Billy and Billy will just chomp it off!

It would be such a sad ending to a beautiful friendship.

Lancelot The Scourge Of The Kelpies

The Kelpies, Juno & Dione being held at bay by Lancelot (He's on the top step out of camera shot)

With the number of pets I have, feeding timeis quite a chore. Every evening I feed the cats, dogs, ferrets etc around 5.30. A ritual has formed, complicating the proceedings and making my job just that bit harder.

About an hour before the designated dinner time, the cats start to feel the first rumblings in their tummy. The fact that dry cat food is available all day in their dish doesn't count when the time for delicious tinned food in approaching. Lancelot decides that subtle hints are needed just in case I forget my most important job of the day. He starts the proceedings by staring at me. He sits in my direct line of sight, even if that means sitting in front of the computer, and stares with the unblinking gaze that only a cat can pull off. If he can, he'll stop glaring and find Guinevere so they can stage vicious looking fights all over the lounge room, or whatever room I'm in, until I get up and get The Tablespoon. This is the spoon I use to dish out the tinned food and Lancelot recognises it from immediately. If I move to another room for any reason, they will stop their battle to the death, follow me and then resume hostilities. Tristan usually rises above the whole feeding time ritual and watches from a distance. There is only one flavour of cat food he will deign to eat and that is only served every fourth day so he doesn't tend to get excited about nightly feeding time.

As soon as they see the spoon peace breaks out and Lancelot then takes on a supervisory role.
Guinevere resumes her lady like personality and sits quietly waiting for dinner to be served but Lancelot is stuck to me like glue. I try to get out the back door without him following me, but I haven't succeeded yet. He escorts me to the laundry where the food is kept, but doesn't come in with me. Instead, he takes up a pugnacious stance on the top step of the back porch, raises the hackles on his back and glares at the Kelpies, Juno and Dione, who desperately want to come up onto the porch for their share of the dog food. Lancelot doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't say anything to the Kelpies, there's no need. At the first sight of Lancelot on that top step they turn into two quivering wrecks unable to think straight or take their eyes off him. They shuffle restlessly from one foot to the other and try to drum up the courage to mount those steps. Occasionally Juno and Dione will have a rush of blood to the head and bound up the steps only to meet with a hiss and a raised paw from their black Nemesis. The quickly cave and bound down the steps faster than they bounded up.

Now I hear you all asking, "Is Lancelot some giant, monster cat breed?" No he's a 12 year old cat showing all the signs of age that the average 12 year old cat shows. He just thinks he's some giant monster cat breed and has somehow brainwashed the Kelpies into believing it too.

I've found the only way to get Lancelot inside so the poor Kelpies can get their share of dinner is to feed Billy, who remains unimpressed by Lancelot's presence, close the laundry door (so I can bring in the ferrets later and the Kelpies can eat without Billy muscling in) and then open the kitchen door and insist that Lancelot go back in the house. He usually shoots one glare and one hiss at the Kelpies for good measure, before complying with my request and stalks into the house. The Kelpies wait until the door is closed and Lancelot is well out of sight before venturing onto the porch. I then feed them and get on with feeding the rest of the menagerie. I keep telling the Kelpies that they are dogs, bigger and stronger than Lancelot (whose threats have all been either via body language or verbal. He has never laid a claw on them - they won't let him get close enough to try), and that there are two of them and only one of Lancelot. Nothing works, they are terrified of him and insist that only one of Lancelot is more than they can deal with. Just the thought of him on the other side of the door is enough to send them scurrying for the porch steps again. I have to wait until they have finished their food before going inside or they will scarper as soon as the back door is open and they see Lancelot on the other side.

Once I'm inside and dishing out the cat food, Lancelot returns to his old mellow self, tucks in with gusto and doesn't give the Kelpies so much as a second thought. If only I could have that sort of power over the menagerie! Life would be so much easier.

Hail!

Hail as far as the eye can see

No, not as in Hail Caesar - we had a frighteningly severe hailstorm on Tuesday night. The hailstones were huge and quickly covered the ground. It looks like all our crops have been badly damaged (our crops are insured so it's not as bad as it sounds), my garden is devastated and it was just coming into flower. This is a big deal because the only flowers I get all year are in spring. But above all this I had pets out in the maelstrom.

As Graeme and I stood in the middle of the house, yelling at each other over the storm (we have a tin roof and the noise was unbelievable), Graeme worried about the windows breaking or parts of the roof lifting off. All I was really worried about were the animals I couldn't gather in my arms and bring inside for tender loving care. The chooks, galahs and pigeon were out there managing as best they could and I was inside frantic about them. As it turned out the chooks were smart enough to seek shelter in their little chook house - truth be told they were most likely already there, settled in for the night.

Tristan, my ginger cat, was outside when it hit but thankfully must have found shelter quickly. He came home a long time after it finished and was in a sorry state, soaking wet and covered in mud. He was frightened and spent Wednesday stuck to me like glue. He has wanted to sleep with us each night since, but with Graeme's wound so delicate after his hernia operation; I've had to close the bedroom door to keep him out. He spent part of the first night outside the door meowing pitifully and complaining about unfeeling family members who abandon a poor cat in his hour of need.

The Kelpies were beside themselves with fear during the storm but Billy remained as unflappable as ever and looked after them. The two quivering girls moved into the laundry with him and snuggled up as close as they could get to the huge mountain of calmness. He was so undisturbed by all the noise that they calmed down a bit. By that I mean they quivered less than before they joined Billy in the laundry. They were still basket cases mind you, just slightly calmer basked cases.

The birds in the aviary were a different matter entirely.

Hedwig and Hermes (the galahs) were my biggest worry. They have a protected area at the back of their aviary where they can seek shelter in the rain, wind or heat, but the front is all just chook wire - a lovely spot to sit on warm spring days. They sleep out there on a large branch every night regardless of the weather while Nova, the retired racing pigeon, sleeps in the protected part in the darkest corner. During the hail storm I got a torch and looked through the kitchen window to see how they were faring and then started to worry even more. Hermes was being the perfect, if somewhat stupid gentleman. He was literally standing on top of Hedwig with his wings partly spread out. He was protecting her from the hail assault, but he was taking the brunt of it himself. Hedwig looked less than impressed with his chivalry. I can imagine how I'd feel if Graeme stood on my head to protect me from something. I'd be looking around for something to protect me from Graeme's protection. Hedwig looked like she needed a new knight in shining armour to deal with the one she had on hand (or on head in this case). Thankfully he did seem to be a bit protected by the metal post that the branch is leaning up against.

Once the hail was over, and all possibilities of concussion with it, I grabbed an umbrella and went out to the aviary and moved Hedwig to the protected part of the cage. At first she didn't want to budge. She just wanted to tell me all her troubles from where she'd finally been set free from Hermes' protection. After a bit of a chat, in which my role was that of sympathetic listener, she consented to jump onto my hand and be moved to drier and safer territory. She was very upset and it took me a while with soft talking and lots of scratching under her wing (her favourite spot to be scratched) to calm her down. I eventually convinced Hermes to join her. He moved over to the protected area, mumbling under his breath about having the whole situation under control and there being no need for pushy busy bodies coming in after the emergency was over and taking charge.

Nova has more sense than the two of them and had taken refuge under shelter straight away. She usually flies away from me when I enter the aviary but tonight she was staying put come what may. I left the aviary and pulled the shade cloth cover I have for summer over the wire part of the cage in case Hermes moved himself out from undercover, which he did as soon as he could convince Hedwig to join him. I'm having serious thoughts about the intelligence level of some galahs.

The next morning both galahs were still asleep (out in the unprotected area of course). Whenever I checked on them during the day they were still asleep, in different spots around the aviary, but with their heads tucked under a wing snoozing the day away - they had a hard night.

I Think Our Ram Has Learned His Lesson

Handsome isn't he? Our ewes all thought so.

Last year we bought two new stud rams. We met both of them at the Adelaide show and after I’d had a quiet chat with each of them I convinced Graeme we needed two, not one. The first fellow was up for auction that day and after a bit of fierce competition we were the winners. The second ram was going to auction at his stud’s farm a week later, so we arranged to bid for him over the phone.

The big day arrived and coincided with my quilting group’s day here so Graeme and I had an eager audience as we sat on the kitchen floor with our heads together and the phone in between us. We’d tried to fancy conference setting on our new phones and it worked beautifully until the time of the actual auction, then there was only silence at my end. Some pretty fast and furious bidding took place, with us having difficulty not knowing if our bid was the highest at the time – without the auctioneer staring pointedly at us it’s easy to lose confidence, but in the end all was fine and we were now the proud owner of the auction’s top priced ram. The quilting group ladies gave a mighty cheer in celebration and then returned to their sewing.

We hurried off to South Australia yet again to take possession of our ram and carried him home in triumph. He settled in well and performed well in his first mating season with the girls. He was also soon showing signs of wanting to be friends – always something I appreciate in 200 kg ram. Unfortunately as so often happens with rams I befriend, he developed a bad habit. If he’d confined his bad habits to just being friendly and getting in the way during drafting, like Farrer does, I could live with that. Two overly friendly rams trying to get pats while I was doing my level best to move the rams through the drafting race would have been difficult indeed, but so much preferable to this new ram’s sins.

Every night, while we were tucked up in bed, our new ram would find a weak spot in the ram paddock’s fence and go wandering. His wandering always took him to the same place – our ewe paddock. Each morning when Graeme was doing the rounds of the farm, there our ram would be, happily ensconced with a few hundred ewes to keep him company. He always had a very pleased with himself smile on his face and so did a few of the ewes. Graeme and I would return him to the ram paddock at the other end of the farm, then Graeme would check the fence for weak spots and not find any he could identify and the game would start again late that night. We are now convinced that he simply climbed the fence - some rams will do anything to get back with the girls

After a couple of these night wanderings we decided to lock him up in the sheep yards with another ram for company in the hope that he’d forget about the ewes and wherever the weak spot in the fence was. After a week of isolation we returned him to the ram paddocks. The next morning he was not among those present in the ram head count. He was very much in evidence in the ewe paddock though. Sterner punishment was called for. We now locked him in the sheep yards for a month. He and his ram friend lived high off the hog during this time, with unlimited hay and water and the occasional serving of lupins. Both rams settled into their new environment wandering from yard to yard. I’m sure he checked out the fences for weak spots but none could be found.

In the middle of his imprisonment all my grandchildren came to visit at the same time. This is a very rare treat and we made the most of it, working on our fairy garden, collecting eggs from the chooks, passing the time of day with the galahs and pigeon and generally having a great time. We were wandering around the yard this day when Michael noticed some wool on the fence. The conversation got around to shearing and I realised none of the grandchildren had ever been in the shearing shed, so I took them all over to the shed and showed them how we shear sheep. They were very impressed with the shearing gear and the chutes down which the shorn sheep go for a slippery slide to under the shed. It all sounded like great fun to them all. I had to dissuade them all from trying out the chute for themselves. We then walked out into the sheep yards so I could explain how we got the sheep into the shed for shearing. Hannah noticed the two rams in the yards and asked why they were there. I explained that the big one had been naughty, breaking out of the ram yard and wandering around the farm to go and visit with the girls, and he was in time out until he learned to behave himself. All five grandchildren quickly understood the concept of time out, all being quite experienced in the system themselves.

Hannah was indignant. At first I thought she was sticking up for the ram and thought he should be set free, but she soon made it clear who’s side she was on. With a determined set to her shoulders and a stiff little, irate walk, Hannah marched up to the fence and wagged her finger at the ram, giving him a stern lecture on good behaviour. It looked like such a good idea that Michael, Erin and Ethan all joined her and four little fingers were wagged as each child contributed their might to the lecture. Claire preferred to remain safely on my hip and watched the lecture with great interest from this protected vantage point. The ram just stood there looking in disbelief at these tiny people, with a sturdy fence between him and them, telling him off. When Hannah decided that he had learned his lesson she gave her parting shot, "And make sure you behave yourself from now on!" turned on her heel and marched back to me. Without Hannah there as back-up the other three gave a final wag of their fingers and a loud, "Yeah!" in support and quick marched back behind her. The ram continued to stand there looking at where the tiny people had been.

We returned to the house with all four kids feeling very smug. I was very good and didn't laugh once. It was difficult but I kept a straight face through the whole lecture and only gave the ram a sympathetic look when the kids weren't looking.

I think he must have taken Hannah’s and her posse's lecture to heart. When he was released after his month’s incarceration he didn’t go visit the girl’s even once. Of course his earlier visits are now paying off and we are about to have an unplanned lambing descend on us any day now – a reminder of his more irresponsible and care free days.

Cecilia Goes Wild

A ferret gone wild!

We had a major gaol break here last night. For a while there I thought that I was going to have to tell Savannah that Cecilia had run away and I really didn't want to be the one to tell her she was one ferret short.

I first noticed that the kitchen had one ferret too many running around the floor. Any ferret running around the floor at night when Graeme could come inside an minute is one ferret too many. I rushed out to scoop up said ferret and put her back in the inside cage where they all sleep in winter. Jocie, as this ferret proved to be, went back into the cage peaceably while I did a head count and came up one ferret short. Neither big fat boy ferret can fit through the little opening at the back of the cage and tend to sulk when the females find a way out. I have adjust the bottom bars of the cage from time to time to stop skinny little female ferrets exiting and going on excursions around the house. I began my search for Cecilia noting that the front door was open and saying a little prayer that she hadn't left the building. A quick look outside didn't give me any clues as to whether she'd gone on a big adventure or just confined herself to finding mischief in the house.

I next checked our bedroom and found evidence that a ferret had been in there having a great time upsetting Lancelot who was on the bed with his tail brushed out and a hunted look on his face. Further evidence to the fact that a ferret had been here was that the bin was overturned and all the rubbish strewn over the bedroom floor (ferrets can't resist rubbish bins and love to sift through their contents for treasures). I heard a scuffling in the kitchen and raced out there only to find that this escaped ferret was Jocie making a reappearance because, in my eagerness to find Cecilia, I'd forgotten to close up her escape route. I kept hold of Jocie while continuing my search for Cecilia.

We went outside together to do a thorough search of the front yard, but I realised if Cecilia had gone out there there was no way I was going to find her. Never the less Jocie and I put in a few frantic minutes searching through the undergrowth. Well I put in the minutes searching, Jocie tended to try to free herself so she could get into that undergrowth and cause me more angst. In the end I had to accept that the only way I was going to find Cecilia if she was out here was for her to reveal herself, give herself up and come quietly. Jocie and I went inside to continue our search.

More rooms were examined thoroughly and I eventually gave up and put Jocie back into the cage and was just repairing the escape route when a little face with a black mask popped out from behind the fridge. I sat where I was, my head moving back and forward between the cage needing escape proofing and the ferret needing scooping in before she went further afield, not sure which to attack first. In the end scooping in the fugitive ferret took priority. I added a stern lecture on the wickedness of giving me heart palpitations, said a little thank you prayer and returned her to the cage, only to find Jocie half in half out of the escape route. As soon as she realised I could see what she was up to she froze where she was, obviously hoping that I wouldn't notice half a ferret sticking out of the cage.

I moved to the back of the cage and tried to poke the excess bits of ferret back into the cage without hurting her, while Jocie tried to add to the ferret excess on the wrong side of the cage (or I suppose the right side of the cage from her point of view). Cecilia came to join in the fun while the fat boys just looked on with sour, jealous looks. In the end it was easier to let them both escape while I sat there and pop them back in the front door. Admittedly their hearts weren't in the great escape this time, they knew they'd be returned to the cage as soon as they got out, but if there's one thing a ferret won't admit it's defeat. So I duly scooped them both up, returned them to the front of the cage and dashed back to fix the unintended back exit before they beat me to it.

Thankfully there were no further ferret escapes during the night. Oh there were many break out attempts from the sounds of attempts to prise the cage bars further apart, but the reinforced cage held up to every ferret assault. I imagine the boys settled down for the night with smug little smiles when they realised the girls were just as locked in now as they were.

Billy Has Joined Our Quilting Group

Billy's idea of joining a quilting group is to roll on his back and offer his tummy for a rub whenever a quilter walks past.

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 January 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 (believe it or not some people are 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 beeline 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 as he 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. He had a bucket of water next to him to help him cool down if he needed it so there was little excuse for all the panting. 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 noise 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 well mannered and honourable for that! But, by the time the food has been thoroughly sniffed, no one else seems to want 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 cold-heartedly 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.

Lambing

Grandson Michael feeding one of last year's bottle babies

I’ve told you all about ram buying and mating here on Spring Rock, now it’s time to initiate you into the wonderful mysteries of lambing.

After the girls have been mated and are proudly walking around the paddocks displaying their blue bottoms (from the crayon the ram wore on his chest when mating was in full swing) things settle down for a while. The girls are left to their own devices to swap parenting stories, wish they could use their wool to make little sets of four booties, and generally eat for a litter of six or seven rather than the single, twins or triplets they are likely to have. The rams return to their paddocks and I imagine their conversation turns to the girls they me, then later on to the ever important topic of the quality and quantity of food to be found.

So life in the sheep stud is quiet and reflective for a few months. We can now turn our attention to the task of sowing the crops and all its myriad of tasks associated with crop growing. I’d like to say life settles down to a quiet routine, but Graeme and temperamental farm equipment never allow that to happen. Crop sowing has a definite window of time when it has to be completed for maximum benefit to the future of the crops, so sowing time is fraught with stress and worry. Farm equipment that hasn’t been used for a year now shows its true colours. I believe that all the larger equipment spend their downtime wrecking important components of their workings just to spite us for ignoring them for most of the year. Emergency dashes to town and hundreds of phone calls to repair shops with minute description of the symptoms are an integral part of our day. But I digress; we are discussing lambing, not cropping.

A few weeks before the girls are due to pop they are brought into the sheep yards to be injected for various nasty diseases that they and/or their lambs may contract if left unprotected. The ewes are never enthusiastic about this assault on their burgeoning bodies and many loud complaints are bleated and indignant sheepy glares are directed at us. Once the girls are injected and assured of another healthy year of life, they are turned out into a paddock close to the sheep yards so they can be mustered and sorted yet again a few days before they are due. If you have read How To Run A Sheep Stud For Fun And Profit you may remember that we synchronise our joining so all the ewes are due to deliver their cute little bundles within a very hectic, two week period. Before their due date the sheep shed is set up with individual maternity rooms made from steel fencing linked together with tent pegs. Each mother-to-be gets a private room nestled in amongst all the rest. The ewes can chat to each other over their pens and compare notes on the size of their tummies and what sex lamb they are hoping for.

When the big day finally arrives for the first ewe the atmosphere in the shed becomes electric. All the girls realise that a new arrival has put in his or her appearance and they begin to ponder their own offspring’s arrival. Ewe faces take on a serious, getting down to business look and before too long more and more lambs are popping out. The older mothers take this all in their stride. Usually they pop out their twins or triplets, clean them up and go back to the serious business of eating, taking time out occasionally to feed their lambs or chew their cuds with their babies snuggled into their sides. All is at peace in their world.

First time mothers can be a whole different kettle of fish. A number of them have no idea what has happened. It’s not uncommon to see a first time mother looking askance at the slimy little thing that has just appeared in their pen. The ewe may stand up and pop her head over the pen to discuss this strange happening with her next door neighbour. I imagine a conversation something like this:
New Mother: “Hey, look what just moved into my pen! Have you ever seen anything like this before? Is it dangerous? Should I be worried?”
Next Door Neighbour (if she’s an experienced mother): “It’s alright dear, it’s just your baby. Just clean him up and you’ll find a cute little lamb under all that slime.”
New Mother: “Clean him up! How?”
Next Door Neighbour: “ You lick him all over until he is dry and white. It’s not too bad, you’ll get used to it.”
New Mother: !!!!!!!

The conversation is a little different with two first time mothers in adjoining pens:
New Mother: “Hey, look what just moved into my pen! Have you ever seen anything like this before? Is it dangerous? Should I be worried?”
Next Door Neighbour: “Good grief! What is it! I hope it doesn’t come in here!!!”
New Mother: “I know! I know! What am I going to do with it?”
Next Door Neighbour: “I have no idea, but keep it away from me!!”

These mothers usually require a short course in cleaning and caring for their babies. We rub down the baby with a towel and then encourage the mother to join in and help. Sometimes they do sometimes they don’t. The next step is to get the mother to stand still while the lamb tries to drink. New born lambs have a lousy sense of direction and will suck on any part of their mother’s (or anyone else’s close by) anatomy. We usually leave the lamb to its own devises and eventually it locates the teats and with a bit more good luck, the ewe stands still while it drinks. Once again these first time mothers can be a different story entirely. Many of them jump each time the cool little mouth touches their warm udder. They not only jump, but dance around the tiny pen acting as if they have had ice cubes put down their back. The lamb tries to follow and latch on to the teat again but this is a forlorn hope. We often have to intervene and hold the mother still while baby has his first drink.

Then there are the lambs who take their dreadful sense of direction to extremes and no matter how many times you push it in the direction of the teats, it will swerve to the left or the right and try to suck on a leg or their mums’ stomach, or our fingers, or anything things else as long as it’s not the teat. Helping these lambs takes on all the attributes of an all in wrestling match, especially if it’s a first time mother with a baffled lamb. The gentle bonding scene between mother and lamb slowly dissolves into chaos and first lamb, then mother and finally we begin to roll around the less than pristine straw on the floor of the pen trying to attach the lamb’s mouth to the reluctant ewe’s teat. Needless to say we wait quite a while before we decide to intervene. Thankfully, the majority of lambs know what to do and the most efficient ways of doing it.

Occasionally, for one reason of another I end up with a bottle baby or two. Before taking this big step towards drastically reducing my free time, we try to encourage another ewe to adopt the orphan baby. First, we cast our eyes around the likely adopters, looking for a ewe with a kind face (well I look for a ewe with a kind face, Graeme just looks for the closest lambless ewe), amongst those who have recently lambed and either lost their lambs or have a single lamb at foot. After choosing our candidate we then rub the lamb all over the ewe’s back end and the afterbirth if it’s still in her pen (usually it’s not). This messy procedure is to get as much of the ewe’s scent as possible onto the ring-in lamb in order to trick her into believing she had simply misplaced this lamb and it has now come home. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Either way there is usually a performance similar to the one described above of attaching the lamb to the teat.

A problem that rears its head all too often amongst Suffolks and White Suffolks occurs when a confused ewe believes she has lambed simply by watching the ewe next door lamb (oh if only childbirth were that easy). The befuddled ewe is eager for her lamb to get away from the ewe next door and come home where it can be loved properly. The real mother is just as anxious that the lamb stay right where it is. The trouble arises when the mother ewe has twins or triplets. While she is busy giving birth to number two or three, the bewildered ewe next door takes this opportunity to entice the lamb over to her pen with promises of ever flowing milk and lots and lots of love. Lambs don’t care who their real mother is. They are just in it for the milk, so these promises usually work straight away. We have tried to place the bars of the pens close enough together to prevent the lambs escaping, but with little success. Part of our time in the shed is involved with re-introducing lamb and real mother over and over again. Most times the real mother will be quite happy to see her offspring again and give it a quick clean up to remover the foreign smell of Mrs Next-door, but on some occasions the real mother will no longer have anything to do with her lamb. So where’s the problem you ask? Why don’t you just let Mrs Next-door have the lamb and add it to her compliment of babies to be raised that year? Ah, it’s not that simple. There are three ways this situation can go:
1. Mrs Next-door can take the lamb to her heart and love it and her own offspring as well when they arrive shortly after
2. She can take the lamb and love it, but reject her own offspring when they arrive because … I don’t k now - who knows why ewes do the things they do.
3. She can realise her mistake as soon as her own babies arrive and reject the baby she stole.
As you might have guessed, outcomes 2. and 3. are much more common that 1. and the result is another bottle baby or two added to my quota.

Of all the reluctant mothers in the shed, I am the most reluctant. Bottle raising lambs gets exponentially more difficult with each lamb that is added to the brood. Each lamb gets exponentially more boisterous and insistent on being fed first with each additional lamb added to the brood and so it goes.

Oh the joys of bottle feeding lambs. I’ll tell you all about that some other day when I’m feeling strong enough to relive the experience.