tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30333031931826605582024-03-05T18:37:33.250+11:00Life At Spring RockThe trials and tribulations of living on an Australian farm with the help of a menagerie of pets.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-36879243605649642852023-12-21T15:27:00.004+11:002023-12-21T15:27:15.778+11:00Happy Christmas<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wishing everyone a very happy Christmas and a wonderful New Year.<p>Rosemary and the Menagerie</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYcoi3DwygbCXnIooljlAN0DHJRycEsRZPYt2JlIEP7973lr-kISHnQJ6_Oxb7-_1bXKgNAF1wmFamKAfyUGG0uTsFC_hoMb6eKGTl-CDChSpE7jmOrawiafLw9CZW1_WxJ4_zzXDeX2xmax2wLnb_O0vOk1HcwcFu7KIvUJ9yvtEmpypZLTeeWZr8aMk/s576/Cleo%20191223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYcoi3DwygbCXnIooljlAN0DHJRycEsRZPYt2JlIEP7973lr-kISHnQJ6_Oxb7-_1bXKgNAF1wmFamKAfyUGG0uTsFC_hoMb6eKGTl-CDChSpE7jmOrawiafLw9CZW1_WxJ4_zzXDeX2xmax2wLnb_O0vOk1HcwcFu7KIvUJ9yvtEmpypZLTeeWZr8aMk/s576/Cleo%20191223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYcoi3DwygbCXnIooljlAN0DHJRycEsRZPYt2JlIEP7973lr-kISHnQJ6_Oxb7-_1bXKgNAF1wmFamKAfyUGG0uTsFC_hoMb6eKGTl-CDChSpE7jmOrawiafLw9CZW1_WxJ4_zzXDeX2xmax2wLnb_O0vOk1HcwcFu7KIvUJ9yvtEmpypZLTeeWZr8aMk/s576/Cleo%20191223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="407" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYcoi3DwygbCXnIooljlAN0DHJRycEsRZPYt2JlIEP7973lr-kISHnQJ6_Oxb7-_1bXKgNAF1wmFamKAfyUGG0uTsFC_hoMb6eKGTl-CDChSpE7jmOrawiafLw9CZW1_WxJ4_zzXDeX2xmax2wLnb_O0vOk1HcwcFu7KIvUJ9yvtEmpypZLTeeWZr8aMk/w283-h400/Cleo%20191223.jpg" width="283" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcQf3_VvWgMyuPneCKQ0WGqs-IxxcvEomchVYMRaVcK7at1qnqwT5eabapVPhafwzcrWowS4F-C6EFUciE2SU_5fRP2QvvkIbc-boNSlwaOK50bAKXRglJL6aJfk9CVduJRHeXxKbyn67Fc1ccMVLLXLAnzV7y0WJfHUU2yS4tiz4pVAU96ftdPSMWHYT/s576/Marlowe%20191223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="354" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcQf3_VvWgMyuPneCKQ0WGqs-IxxcvEomchVYMRaVcK7at1qnqwT5eabapVPhafwzcrWowS4F-C6EFUciE2SU_5fRP2QvvkIbc-boNSlwaOK50bAKXRglJL6aJfk9CVduJRHeXxKbyn67Fc1ccMVLLXLAnzV7y0WJfHUU2yS4tiz4pVAU96ftdPSMWHYT/w246-h400/Marlowe%20191223.jpg" width="246" /></a></div></div></div><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-68647060397692837142023-10-02T03:25:00.002+11:002023-10-09T10:31:27.740+11:00Tristan<br /><!--[if !mso]>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Vale
Tristan</span></b></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhyphenhyphendq1-1v68ER7bf3EpPpY_jWQqLSn1-O9UCMA8pFzByt2o_GpepYOigyooStzxVhBHP19viy20joNznLl6pO0Cs5nFgB5QG7NUbV8HNmwd0-dc4y1XII6s9KW2CROaXLUJPfICiRLiG_W-r3dkG1kzmdBszmylYdmfJpN04zsKhhLJTzipaI6Cwxvmmx/s576/Tristan%20031022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="421" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhyphenhyphendq1-1v68ER7bf3EpPpY_jWQqLSn1-O9UCMA8pFzByt2o_GpepYOigyooStzxVhBHP19viy20joNznLl6pO0Cs5nFgB5QG7NUbV8HNmwd0-dc4y1XII6s9KW2CROaXLUJPfICiRLiG_W-r3dkG1kzmdBszmylYdmfJpN04zsKhhLJTzipaI6Cwxvmmx/w293-h400/Tristan%20031022.jpg" width="293" /></a></span></b></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Tristan died a few weeks ago.<span> </span>I miss him dreadfully.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Tristan
arrived at Spring Rock</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> in January 2003,</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> as the cutest ginger kitten I’d ever met.<span> </span>A few months before his arrival I’d mentioned
to my friend and neighbour, Aileen, that with all the cats I’d owned in my long
history of cat ownership, I’d only ever had one ginger cat and that was when I
was a child.<span> </span>I told her I love ginger
cats (well, I love any colour cat, but I was talking about ginger cats at the
time) and would love to own another one.<span>
</span>A month or two later Aileen asked if I still wanted a ginger cat.<span> </span>Graeme was nowhere in sight so I said
yes.<span> </span>Aileen’s daughter’s cat had had an
illicit liaison with a feral tomcat and had produced a litter of kittens, one
of whom was ginger.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgnUZt44Do7v5sCrLEWfsWjauNz_STYvEas1-d5ewtNnDj1JA2XM8kZHqepeLLI4cRZz5MzAdlAFfyu2QTNecUBxypougSEtc50_UslgRHTqJsYxktlTS4fLtKyKzEKxcBWZjb_4tTlczid0CVJbosbX3jnNdB3Ef0GEO9zo28YRPNK0fKcDVK_3v1b2V/s2032/100_0581.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1524" data-original-width="2032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgnUZt44Do7v5sCrLEWfsWjauNz_STYvEas1-d5ewtNnDj1JA2XM8kZHqepeLLI4cRZz5MzAdlAFfyu2QTNecUBxypougSEtc50_UslgRHTqJsYxktlTS4fLtKyKzEKxcBWZjb_4tTlczid0CVJbosbX3jnNdB3Ef0GEO9zo28YRPNK0fKcDVK_3v1b2V/w400-h300/100_0581.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">As soon as he was old enough to leave his mum Aileen
brought the little ginger scrap over to his new home.<span> </span>Tristan settled in quickly.<span> </span>I named him Tristan to fit in with the
current Arthurian theme at the time.<span>
</span>Lancelot and Guinevere were my two, now middled aged cats in residence. <span>Tristan </span>developed a deep affection for Graeme, almost
on sight, and wouldn’t take no for an answer when he wanted to sit on Graeme’s
knee.<span> </span>Graeme wasn’t used to feline
attention.<span> </span>Lancelot and Guinevere spent all
their spare time on my knee.<span> </span>After a few false starts, Graeme and Tristan
became firm friends and the tiny kitten would curl up on Graeme’s knee while he
worked on his computer at night.<span> </span>As
Tristan grew older and larger, and took up more of Graeme’s knee he was told he’d
have to find somewhere else to spend his nights as he was now in the way, so
Tristan, ever the pragmatist, found a spare spot on my knee and ignored the two
older cat’s bad language as he settled in.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Lancelot
and Guinevere didn’t ever really accept the new arrival.<span> </span>Their opinion of this little ginger scrap was
decidedly negative.<span> </span>They felt that the
house operated well on a two-cat basis and saw no need to over populate the
house with an excess redhead.<span> </span>Tristan
lived on the periphery of their lives and was content to do so.<span> </span>Very little upset Tristan.<span> </span>He’d just go with the flow with any situation
that arose.<span> </span>I’m not sure that this
laid-back attitude to life didn’t annoy Lancelot and Guinevere more.<span> </span>No matter what bad language or physical
insults they threw at Tristan, he’d just move a little further away, out of
striking range, and settle down for his nap, whether on my lap, in front of the
heater or in the bathroom on the beds there at night.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy26gfvNEZkSi0wfPKmx-lBQAEWfQ9s2LEeWM41a-IF1_lKnZZ5JrVjMjgqGT-SFTxYL7kgNYXxi2RligGn-qsNqHAbJm76tP1F_pPuTu95tbQmH5ovpMroLbNbanU01DA34cVOz3cRi_sYbzFVGBR6cvAQTxtUsKNAsdb2wdzlkM3qOkfJNCGAFxk8kDE/s417/liildjchlbgmkcdl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="417" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy26gfvNEZkSi0wfPKmx-lBQAEWfQ9s2LEeWM41a-IF1_lKnZZ5JrVjMjgqGT-SFTxYL7kgNYXxi2RligGn-qsNqHAbJm76tP1F_pPuTu95tbQmH5ovpMroLbNbanU01DA34cVOz3cRi_sYbzFVGBR6cvAQTxtUsKNAsdb2wdzlkM3qOkfJNCGAFxk8kDE/w400-h300/liildjchlbgmkcdl.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">After
Lancelot and Guinevere were no longer with us, Tristan settled down to enjoy
life without cross cats in his life.<span> </span>He
didn’t have long to enjoy the single life before Ambrosia and Nefertiti arrived.<span> </span>Unlike his two predecessors, Tristan welcomed
the two new kittens with open paws and not a claw in sight.<span> </span>All three cats settled into a warm friendship
where there were no fights about lap space, heater privileges or room on the
bed.<span> </span>Strangely, sunny spots on the
carpet did cause harsh words from time to time, but I’d just open the curtains
further and increase the sunny spot size on the carpet and peace would reign
again.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">At first Tristan didn’t seem to fit into the Spring Rock
menagerie.<span> </span>He was a totally sane
cat.<span> </span>This was unheard of in the annals
of my menagerie.<span> </span>I mentioned my concerns
to Graeme, rather in the manner of expecting trouble to rear its head any time
now. <span> </span>I needn’t
have worried; it didn’t take long for the general lunacy among the four-legged
Spring Rock population to rub off on him. <span> </span>After a while, Tristan developed his own
little idiosyncrasies.<span> </span>When he felt
unloved or unappreciated, Tristan took to putting his face against the wall and
not talking to any of us.<span> </span>He began channelling
Meerkats, sitting upright on his bottom and hind legs for extra height, despite
being on the floor so not gaining any advantage with this extra height, and, he
began bunny worrying.<span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjt_Dfp70oYtmjw8WBXBF232v6v8RK5qgpnN42YbJayvBAa5c-yDSYpgI-QrK06KmcaRQXi3hdVChyphenhyphenMDv8wBgHAb4yDVkXTidEphhIqZ4zsP5O7BdKOzuOC9Y7yTfziGGEtlHgwzcWBQYmg_ZOJ-DBvWeNNmliSa7jTAZiBwSbS5LDwscNxC6Nt9VsJ1_/s366/peednkopjapkoecc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="275" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjt_Dfp70oYtmjw8WBXBF232v6v8RK5qgpnN42YbJayvBAa5c-yDSYpgI-QrK06KmcaRQXi3hdVChyphenhyphenMDv8wBgHAb4yDVkXTidEphhIqZ4zsP5O7BdKOzuOC9Y7yTfziGGEtlHgwzcWBQYmg_ZOJ-DBvWeNNmliSa7jTAZiBwSbS5LDwscNxC6Nt9VsJ1_/w300-h400/peednkopjapkoecc.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></span></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">In his younger days, before retirement and a sedentary
life inside, Tristan preferred the wide outdoors most of the time.<span> </span>When hanging around the house yard and house,
whichever side of the door Tristan found himself was the wrong side of the
door.<span> </span>The time I spent opening the back
door to either let him in or out doesn’t bare thinking about. <span> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">When outside and wanting to come in, Tristan would sit
outside the lounge room window and emit little plaintive meows.<span> </span>It seemed only I could hear these pleas to be
let inside.<span> </span>Graeme remain blissfully
impervious to them.<span> </span>Once inside he’d
visit the food bowl and catch up with Ambrosia and Nefertiti for any new gossip
(before these two friendly cats’ arrival he ignored Guinevere and Lancelot
because all he would have received for his trouble would be a growl or swat),
visit the food bowl again and soon begin to think of all the farm he hadn’t yet
explored.<span> </span>His strategy for letting me
know his visit has come to an end was to jump on me if I was sitting down, jump
down again, walk a little way away from me while looking over his shoulder at
me in a significant way, then returning to jump on me again. Tristan was
no lightweight cat.<span> </span>When you'd been
jumped on by Tristan you were left in no doubt that you'd been jumped on.
His landings were often accompanied by an "Ooof!" from me as his paws
hit my stomach (I tend to lay back slightly on the lounge with my feet up you
see). If I was standing up he wound his way around my legs, doing his
best to trip me up (so he could jump on me I imagine). He then headed door-wards
while throwing me that significant look once again and returned to wind himself
around me again if I still hadn’t figured his message out.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Tristan would disappear for days on end – on two separate
occasions he was gone for over two weeks!<span>
</span>When he returned his ears would be covered in rabbit fleas.<span> </span>We believed the only way he could acquire
such a large number of fleas - his ears would be black with them - was to
actually go down the rabbit holes in search of bunnies.<span> </span>Rabbit fleas behave more like ticks than
fleas.<span> </span>They burrowed into Tristan’s
ears and stayed put.<span> </span>We haven’t had a flea on any of our pets since we moved to Spring Rock which is
wonderful, and the only fleas we had to deal with stayed in the one spot on
Tristan making de-fleaing a very easy process - Graeme and I simply used
tweezers to de-flea Tristan on his return home.<span>
</span>If Tristan came home without us noticing the fleas, he would make sure
to sit on my lap, give me a significant look and rub his ears on my shirt.<span> </span>I soon got the message and Tristan was soon
flea free again.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">As he grew older, Tristan became more and more a
homebody, choosing the inside option more and more until eventually he didn’t
go outside at all.<span> </span>When he first settled
into old age Tristan would stand at the front door until I opened it so he
could go outside and sit on </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">either </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">the front steps or just meander onto the
front porch.<span> </span>That was enough outside for
him for a couple of years.<span> </span>Then when he
reached 18 he would ask for the front door to be opened, look out onto the
porch and garden, ignoring the door I’d opened for him, then walk back to his
comfortable bed, secure in the knowledge that should he ever wish to go on
adventures the outside was still there waiting for him.<span> </span>Eventually even checking the door still led
to outside stopped and Tristan reached full retirement.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIbXKyzqWUkN6jTKFZz7c7UbsPqkbODy55eyGAcDmMfXk3YOVGla1SRU4fGVoWVaPy2XcqN3GhyphenhyphensGmUF0b1nIuhcw00grGWQhhzT7Y6spcAWvSFNYUAJJCHfr0utjzD079gURAsNJbY0hC3wLXYAGRccwVkiY5PydBbwCf0iS2PglNYALXEEJUFcNB9sA/s2032/100_0985.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1524" data-original-width="2032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIbXKyzqWUkN6jTKFZz7c7UbsPqkbODy55eyGAcDmMfXk3YOVGla1SRU4fGVoWVaPy2XcqN3GhyphenhyphensGmUF0b1nIuhcw00grGWQhhzT7Y6spcAWvSFNYUAJJCHfr0utjzD079gURAsNJbY0hC3wLXYAGRccwVkiY5PydBbwCf0iS2PglNYALXEEJUFcNB9sA/w400-h300/100_0985.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">At 18 Tristan started having infrequent, but terrifying seizures.<span> </span>His visit to the vets during the pandemic,
along with Cleo and Aslan who also needed vet treatment, was not his idea of
how an elderly gentleman should be treated.<span>
</span>Dreadful threats and bad language emanated from the cat carrier - even
Cleo and Aslan looked concerned at the threats.<span>
</span>Once at the vets’ (we had two vets treating the three pets) Tristan quietened
down and bided his time while the larger patients were seen to.<span> </span>When Tristan’s turn came, I warned Jen, the
vet, that he was in a bad mood and now felt that one of the privileges of old
age was to be irascible and say it with tooth and claw when really ticked
off.<span> </span>Jen approached the cat carrier with
caution, saying that most elderly gentlemen could be problems.<span> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Tristan decided to hold no grudges against Jen.<span> </span>It wasn’t her fault he had been treated so abominably
in the last hour or so, and he gave her is best purr while rubbing his face
along her hand.<span> </span>Jen was a devoted fan
from that moment.<span> </span>She complimented me on
his excellent condition, despite his age.<span>
</span>I told her I hadn’t done much to contribute towards that condition - I’d
bought him a heating pad for cold winter weather and called out to Tristan each
time I encountered a very elderly cat on the internet, telling him the cat’s
age and letting Tristan know this was the new number we were aiming for.<span> </span>After a number of tests Jen told me, the
seizures were not a big problem as long as they remained spaced about a month
or more apart.<span> </span>Should they get closer
together we would have to review Tristan’s quality of life and make hard
decisions.<span> </span>Thankfully, they never
occurred closer than a month apart, so Tristan and I just dealt with them as
they occurred.<span> </span>He was always able to
recover relatively quickly - I think he was over the seizure before I was.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">He
enjoyed a “mushed” egg each day when eggs were plentiful or a small helping of
butter off the end of my knife as I made my lunch when they weren’t.<span> </span>Tristan began having a mushed egg because he
refused to eat the egg white, gobbling up the yolk and ignoring the rest of his
egg.<span> </span>I whisked it to combine the two and
Tristan polished off the lot, so that became his treat.<span> </span>One time I had put the egg in his bowl when
the phone rang.<span> </span>I answered the phone and
then wandered away, forgetting about the unmushed egg.<span> </span>Tristan was appalled!<span> </span>He sat there waiting for me to return to my
duties, and when I failed to show up, half an hour later, he came and got me, letting
me know I needed to return to the kitchen.<span>
</span>As I followed him, his tail straight up in the air to express his
disappointment in me, Tristan muttered about how hard it was to get good help
these days.<span> </span>He then sat next to his bowl
and looked at me, then the egg, then me again.<span>
</span>I got the message, mushed the egg and all was forgiven.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4w4dVYMRAi2D_cgSq-9v_7rg0xjVFyUv0moaq6eBNcvPM0QmkbYEXvNJvpimsHKsE69ho-z7KT8WSNd4SwV458WG7yA4sZpazOgHqPl3KM5UTEyOJqRiNJVX5uDlkZb74bcF2VkhkSiEp0ZY_8cLonR2fX8YFXt3dh2tWObm6y19UK7ZsgBTb_FlUIE_d/s4032/20221106_152742.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4w4dVYMRAi2D_cgSq-9v_7rg0xjVFyUv0moaq6eBNcvPM0QmkbYEXvNJvpimsHKsE69ho-z7KT8WSNd4SwV458WG7yA4sZpazOgHqPl3KM5UTEyOJqRiNJVX5uDlkZb74bcF2VkhkSiEp0ZY_8cLonR2fX8YFXt3dh2tWObm6y19UK7ZsgBTb_FlUIE_d/w195-h400/20221106_152742.jpg" width="195" /></a></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Tristan had me well trained in the delivering of mushed eggs and in many other ways. When resting on my lap, if Tristan decided I was non-gainfully occupied with my needlework or reading, he would reach out a paw, hook it around my wrist (no claws involved thankfully) and bring my hand over to the spot that needed patting or scratching. Once I was gainfully employed, he'd close his eyes and enjoy the attention. Should I stop patting or scratching him and return to my earlier occupation, Tristan would simply repeat the process that led to his comfort and hook my wrist again and pull it towards him. There was really no point in trying to sew or read when Tristan wanted attention, so attention Tristan got. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">In the end, Tristan lived to two months short of his 21<sup>st</sup>
birthday.<span> </span>Tristan had lived with me
longer than any of my children had, a fact I pointed out to them often.<span> </span>Although he began to look like a very elderly
cat towards the end, with that scruffy coat older cats usually have, he
remained spry enough.<span> I bought a grooming glove to help with the scruffy look, but there was no denying my beautiful boy was a very old cat. </span>He had his daily
arthritis medicine, which couldn’t have tasted too bad because Tristan would
remind me if I forgot to administer it.<span>
</span>He’d stand by the kitchen cupboards near where I kept the medicine on
the bench, look at me, and wait for me to catch his message. <br /></span></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">He died on his bed.<span>
</span>In the morning, we found him there in a bad way.<span> </span>His back legs no longer worked and he’d
become incontinent during the night.<span> </span>He
died before we could get him to the vets’ for which I was grateful.<span> </span>A long car ride in the cat carrier when he
was in such a bad way would have been so stressful for my gorgeous old
gentleman.<span> </span>I had time to say goodbye to
him and thank him for almost 21 wonderful years of his company.<span> </span>Sadly, I have no photos of Tristan’s last
months to share.<span> </span>I had a bad run in with
technology around that time.<span> </span>My computer
was dead for over five weeks so I didn’t save my phone photos to the
computer.<span> </span>Then, before the computer was
repaired, the SD card in my phone died, taking all my recent photos with
it.<span> </span>I have photos of Tristan from the
day he arrived until a few months ago and I’ll always have my memories of a
life shared with a wonderful red headed fellow.</span></span></p>
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Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-71433405278833092042023-05-25T18:54:00.006+10:002023-05-25T18:56:17.046+10:00Recuperating With The Menagerie<p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><!--[if !mso]>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">I’ve been on the recovery list for a while.<span> </span>Back in early April, I needed surgery to my
left second toe and my right foot.<span> </span>I had
broken my toe a couple of times over the years and it had curled over, making
wearing shoes uncomfortable.<span> </span>I also had
an arthritic spur on the top of my right foot making shoes uncomfortable there
as well.<span> </span>The surgery was quick and easy
and I was home again that night with orders from the surgeon to keep my feet
elevated until she saw me in ten days time to take out the stitches.<span> </span>The left toe had a rod inserted into it
during surgery with a little white bead sticking out of the end of my toe, just
waiting to be knocked on something, so I took my keeping my feet up orders very
seriously.<span> </span>This rod had to stay in for
six weeks.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">I made a long-term nest for myself on the lounge where I
had all life’s essentials to hand – my knitting, needlework project, books,
laptop and the television remote.<span> </span>I
wasn’t forbidden from putting my feet on the floor so other essentials such as
cups of tea were on a get it myself basis.<span>
</span>I was all set to recuperate in comfort.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Nefertiti was the first to discover my semi-prone form
and she was all in favour of it.<span> </span>She
settled herself on my stomach, composed a new purr just for the occasion and
closed her eyes to enjoy me lying down for long periods of time.<span> </span>Despite Nefertiti wanting to keep this a
secret, word soon got out amongst the other cats.<span> </span>Tristan and Ambrosia soon began to crowd
Nefertiti out and the jockeying for space on Mum soon began in earnest.<span> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">I’ve mentioned before that with the cats it’s the closest
to my face who wins, which usually means last one on is the winner.<span> </span>With my legs lying out straight (albeit on an
unusual incline) and my torso semi-flat, there was considerably more space for
the taking, but only the very top of my chest was the desired area for all
three cats.<span> </span>When I came out to the
lounge room first thing in the morning the battles would commence for the prime
piece of property.<span> </span>Ambrosia was usually
first up and she contented herself with the top of my legs, until Nefertiti
arrived and chose my stomach.<span> </span>Tristan,
being 20 years old now and a cat of peace, would wander in soon after that and
just look for a peaceful, war free zone.<span>
</span>Unfortunately, Ambrosia and Nefertiti fought the Battle for Closest to
the Face every morning.<span> </span>I would do what
I could to shield Tristan with one hand and remove both brawling cats one
handed.<span> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Once the two combatants were exiled to the floor, looking
very disgruntled and totally innocent Tristan could settle down.<span> </span>Nefertiti and Ambrosia would sneak back, duly
chastened for the time being and I would get on with my sewing, knitting or
reading.<span> </span>Thankfully, Graeme came in to
give me the much needed cup of teas and lunch at appropriated times. <span> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">The problem arose when trips to the bathroom were
necessary – and believe me, I put them off as long as possible.<span> </span>I would begin my exit by putting Nefertiti on
the floor.<span> </span>She was the cat who
invariably won the War of the Closest to the Face, so the first one I could
reach.<span> </span>Before Nefertiti was able to jump
back up again I had to get Ambrosia off my legs, which was nowhere near as
straight forward as you’d think.<span>
</span>Ambrosia instantly took on the consistency of that slime children play
with.<span> </span>If I picked up her middle, she’d
sort of ooze out of my hand, if I tried using both hands she’d go limp and roll
away from the hands.<span> </span>It took a while to
manage to corral the entire cat and by this time, Nerfertiti was up on my chest
again, preparing to forgive and forget and settle back to her snooze.<span> </span>Eventually, both girls were on the floor and
I would gently move my legs away from Tristan who always ended up in a little
Tristan sized zone between my legs and the back of the lounge.<span> </span>Both Nefertiti and Ambrosia sat on the floor
giving me their most hurt look.<span> </span>I’d head
bathroom way apologising and I went.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Once back on the lounge the whole process began again,
with the exception that Tristan usually stayed in his little Tristan Zone of
Peace.<span> </span>Words would be said on my part
and ignored on Nefertiti’s and Ambrosia’s part, and eventually we’d reach the
stage where everyone involved could live with the arrangement until I had to
get up the next time.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">In
case you are worrying about Venus, she had no interest in joining the other
three cats on top of me.<span> </span>Venus took one
look at the scuffling and nasty words being exchanged (the cats’ not mine) and
preferred to spend her days with her dog, much to Cleo’s embarrassment.<span> </span>Venus spent her days catching mice and
presenting them as love tokens to Cleo, who did not favour the taste of
mice.<span> </span>Once I was up and around on my
feet again, I would watch Cleo roll her eyes at yet another small, dead
offering from that strange cat.<span> </span>If she
noticed my presence, Cleo would look at me, clearly appealing that I do
something about this, as it was mortifying to be fed mice by a cat.<span> </span>Marlowe solved the problem each time by
ducking in and snatching the mouse, because he had no such prejudices against
the taste of mouse.<span> </span>When Venus came in
at night, she’d settle herself on Tristan’s bed on one of the lounge chairs and
snooze the night away.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> <br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxKtv5PT5C8jB5KGEYaIQrGi4-LiuFFTOWAc_zm9xG3op-H2dqFgZHc4ObhtSNHEEhvDcMmFF-Lx0IaQPrGrxbkpjfu-nPh9wuY6T7SIqRLy9mXWFTKO3MFvdVGt0K5x0VvqoZr1tQ1Xbv4LQv8is3UHSoVLmvW13nNEZpFfJxR8EGgYwpicXln4TzQ/s576/Tristan%20031022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="421" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxKtv5PT5C8jB5KGEYaIQrGi4-LiuFFTOWAc_zm9xG3op-H2dqFgZHc4ObhtSNHEEhvDcMmFF-Lx0IaQPrGrxbkpjfu-nPh9wuY6T7SIqRLy9mXWFTKO3MFvdVGt0K5x0VvqoZr1tQ1Xbv4LQv8is3UHSoVLmvW13nNEZpFfJxR8EGgYwpicXln4TzQ/w293-h400/Tristan%20031022.jpg" width="293" /></a></span></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> Tristan
enjoying his bed before my foot surgery.</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">The puppies’ roles in my rehabilitation came after I was
back on my feet.<span> </span>Both puppies behaved as
if I’d been out of their lives for years rather than only seeing them
occasionally for just ten days.<span> </span>Cleo
thankfully has matured into gentle old age.<span>
</span>She contented herself with standing beside me and placing her head under
my hand in case pats were available – they always were.<span> </span>After the pats were administered, Cleo would
either follow me around the yard “helping” with whatever I was doing, or
retreat to her sunny spot and go back to sleep.<span>
</span>Cleo has become a low maintenance dog if we forget about her very
expensive operation a few months ago (I’ll write about that in the future).</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Marlowe would bound about me, showing how happy he was to
see me and invite me to a game of tug of war or chasing, neither of which I was
prepared to join in with my poor toe.<span>
</span>One a couple of occasion Marlowe’s bouncing energy brought him too close
to my foot encased in a surgical sandal and the inevitable would happen and I’d
have a 75kg Saint Bernard land on the tender toe.<span> </span>Marlowe and I would exchange a few words
about being more careful, I’d eventually get over the pain and life would go
on.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Hedwig, the arbiter of shoe fashion,
objected very strongly to the surgical sandal.<span>
</span>It wasn’t surprising; she hates my garden clogs and has left beak marks
in them from time to time.<span> </span>The huge,
black plastic sandal was just too much!<span>
</span>Hedwig wanted it out of her aviary and wanted it out now!<span> </span>Feeding Hedwig and Hermes required me to do a
little shuffle dance to keep the irate fashionista</span> <span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">off
my sandal and away from my toe.<span> </span>I’m not
sure the white bead didn’t offend Hedwig’s sensibilities as well, but I was
careful to keep it well away from her beak.<span>
</span>Hermes really wasn’t bothered about the sandal, but doesn’t take
Hedwig’s tantrums well.<span> </span>He would sit on
one of the perches and offer her verbal encouragement until I’d refilled their
feed containers and left.<span> </span>Hedwig would
then return to Hermes, clearly telling him she’d dealt with my latest fashion
disaster.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvttZgb344PTj2cUcmGOteAA9tgZAqh7Qhja6siozHZGFrgzvyBiCvnx18KA04bafJ7uxjYEmpndo1oSWNDoa5qMjAF7Ll7aw-2JQCjx9TNVXD7dBkOMfQaeM7aLNckh-y9v5d5L34NGFBijJ3AAi5moWDoKF6aQf1nGUxyBDsZhc_GuofKWTLkHwKVg/s497/116719147_2418678615094718_2925608805082981964_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvttZgb344PTj2cUcmGOteAA9tgZAqh7Qhja6siozHZGFrgzvyBiCvnx18KA04bafJ7uxjYEmpndo1oSWNDoa5qMjAF7Ll7aw-2JQCjx9TNVXD7dBkOMfQaeM7aLNckh-y9v5d5L34NGFBijJ3AAi5moWDoKF6aQf1nGUxyBDsZhc_GuofKWTLkHwKVg/s320/116719147_2418678615094718_2925608805082981964_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Hermes
and Hedwig</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">The chooks and ferrets didn’t notice the change in my
footwear.<span> </span>Graeme fed the chooks and
collected the eggs until I was on my feet again, and the ferrets and I communed
much as we always had.<span> </span>Charis and Freya don’t
care what I wear as long as I distribute treats and cuddles on a regular basis.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">On Monday evening, my toe was giving me a lot of
trouble.<span> </span>It had been slightly painful
all day (and it wasn’t one of the days Marlowe stepped on it).<span> </span>When I had finished all my menagerie feeding
chores I opened up the sandal and removed the surgical stocking to find my foot
was swollen, the toe an angry red and the redness was covering about half my
foot.<span> </span>When Graeme came in from the
paddocks, he took me to our local country hospital.<span> </span>The doctor on call prescribed IV antibiotics
and she’d call my surgeon in the morning, but there were no spare beds at the
hospital so I had to come back every eight hours for my next IV.<span> </span>This meant leaving home at 3.30am for one of
the injections.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial", "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">On Tuesday the surgeon was in surgery all day so uncontactable.<span> </span>I was told to keep
coming back for my eight hourly IVs.<span>
</span>Throughout my numerous visits the little hospital he staff were
wonderful and were soon treating me like one of their friends.<span> </span>Finally late Tuesday an appointment was made
for me to see the surgeon and everything is now well on the way to healing.<span> </span>Wednesday afternoon was my last IV and I’m
now taking oral antibiotics so no more hospital visits in the early morning.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"">I think the trips to the hospital
stopped just in time. <span> </span>Poor Marlowe had
felt that it was his responsibility to wave goodbye to us each time we left for
the hospital, and to be at the gate to welcome us back home again when we arrived,
even the 3.00am departures and subsequent 5.00am returns. Cleo was happy
to assist Marlowe in the goodbyes and welcome homes at decent hours of the day
but she put her paw down at getting up in the middle of the night to join
Marlowe’s farewell and welcome committee. It's a good thing the 1.00pm IV
was the last one. Marlowe waved goodbye from the gate as we left, but
when we returned home at 3.00 he was snoozing in the sun. He opened his
eyes, gave a short wag of his tail, and told us to welcome ourselves home, he
was over it. He did muster the energy to follow me to the back door, but
quickly returned to his sunny spot in the garden.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"">I have been ordered to keep my
foot elevated until the swelling goes down, which, according to the surgeon, could
be a few weeks. <span> </span>Here we go again.</span></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7DNXcIFWfvOgjrryts6Sk0mD6fGaPN3gYWXt3J3y5uQ-kMpyjmuLc4eXFdKcGatR2zWspMmouD-zIJ9QWMNn380IxL7HawQR8Uq9t0gzx4rHiXz9yNOjhqrDFaXL6fuiRWhk_kpTEG--0XcgOE_v1fAjkJx2yYfA0sWui6dtnuJMTB--a5g0cS3lWg/s576/090423.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="516" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7DNXcIFWfvOgjrryts6Sk0mD6fGaPN3gYWXt3J3y5uQ-kMpyjmuLc4eXFdKcGatR2zWspMmouD-zIJ9QWMNn380IxL7HawQR8Uq9t0gzx4rHiXz9yNOjhqrDFaXL6fuiRWhk_kpTEG--0XcgOE_v1fAjkJx2yYfA0sWui6dtnuJMTB--a5g0cS3lWg/s320/090423.jpg" width="287" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span face=""Arial","sans-serif""></span></i></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"">The
Farewell/Welcome Home Committee</span></i></span></p><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-69475908401701207002023-01-24T10:03:00.005+11:002023-01-24T10:04:50.289+11:00It's Been A While<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCKEIf1F3w4r7tM8LQdPYvUDThs8CJBxUcifkMcR6Z-G-BmPgKeHZy2Ob7Cx8z5PCaTGJh7MACuSPYw5_pyXvidIIaj7VfWcgr-twvuaTsHdK3cUhJ0WpfUy8aXFTxjxB48P6QyBlV28OyM3u4ElGjWSblBZbGzTjR0f_FGeakwVdn4aykhG0UlvIM6w/s432/191222.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="425" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCKEIf1F3w4r7tM8LQdPYvUDThs8CJBxUcifkMcR6Z-G-BmPgKeHZy2Ob7Cx8z5PCaTGJh7MACuSPYw5_pyXvidIIaj7VfWcgr-twvuaTsHdK3cUhJ0WpfUy8aXFTxjxB48P6QyBlV28OyM3u4ElGjWSblBZbGzTjR0f_FGeakwVdn4aykhG0UlvIM6w/w394-h400/191222.jpg" width="394" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
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<![endif]--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It’s been a while since my last post.<span> </span>Marlowe is now nine months old and has
settled in as a beloved part of the menagerie.<span>
</span>We had some fraught times with him in the early months.<span> </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span>Our doggy medical adventures began with Cleo. She was losing weight at an alarming rate, had developed a large number of bare, sore and itchy areas on her skin and was basically miserable. Our vets are wonderful and it's difficult to get an appointment under two weeks away. While I waited for the appointment day I treated Cleo with various potions to help with the itch, tried various foods to tempt her appetite (tinned puppy food was the only thing she'd eat) and generally spent my days trying to stop her scratching her skin raw.</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span>The vet appointment day finally arrived and Cleo and Marlowe visited the vet. Marlowe was due for his next booster injection. The vet blamed Marlowe for Cleo's hot spots and steroid tablets, antibiotics and various other remedies were prescribed. The medication schedule for the menagerie was both extensive and confusing. Tristan has a daily arthritis medication to add to the extensive range of medicines, but it's still difficult to believe all the medicines were for just two dogs and one old cat. I ended up writing up a table to help me sort it out. Here is a photo of what the pet medication hub looked like back then.</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iFR6XfIFcoeBZaz4C4GNZK8Nj8l2_eaP5-Dv4NIAKYKAIFXec9StFFTKFaIoYOQRFMAifDBR3NYycKZJowrNQEYX1D6hmLBRw7h4DFAQdLTgvKaS8Sx3QUkPcZ-mdW6XTy0dNzjn1nLyRpoRa3oRFROqDpCMtv9VXCAvTO4aTBdI4JPU7OBaVtH8YA/s1865/20220827_102953.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1821" data-original-width="1865" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iFR6XfIFcoeBZaz4C4GNZK8Nj8l2_eaP5-Dv4NIAKYKAIFXec9StFFTKFaIoYOQRFMAifDBR3NYycKZJowrNQEYX1D6hmLBRw7h4DFAQdLTgvKaS8Sx3QUkPcZ-mdW6XTy0dNzjn1nLyRpoRa3oRFROqDpCMtv9VXCAvTO4aTBdI4JPU7OBaVtH8YA/w400-h390/20220827_102953.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The medical adventures continued the next day. <br /></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">We have two feral, half-grown cats who visit our back
porch at night to help themselves to the dog food.<span> </span>Marlowe has become good friends with Venus, our ex-feral cat,
although she still prefers Cleo, who Venus considers to be her dog. It looks like Marlowe tried to
befriend the feral cats.<span> </span>One Wednesday
morning I noticed a large swelling under Marlowe’s chin.<span> </span>We’d only been to the vets’ the day before as
a follow up for Cleo’s hot spots (they weren’t hot spots, but mites, most
likely brought into our back yard by some of the rabbits on the farm).<span> </span>After an ultrasound Jen, the vet, said the
abscess on Marlowe’s neck wasn’t ready for lancing and she booked Marlowe in
for surgery on the following Monday.<span> </span>By
Thursday night Marlowe was miserable.<span> </span>He
couldn’t swallow and was in so much pain, we decided to take him back to the
vets’ on Friday in case the abscess was ready for surgery. </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It was a good thing we did because Jen said it would have
burst on Saturday night.<span> </span>Marlowe had the
surgery and came home with the cone of shame around his neck and a drain tube
in the abscess.<span> </span>Jen said the abscess had been a
lot worse than she expected and went in quite deep – the reason poor Marlowe
couldn’t swallow.<span> </span>Jen said there was still a
bit of a lump there but that would disappear over the next few days.<span> </span>Antibiotic tablets were to be given twice a
day.<span> </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7C2tVLS5UP1H_-eG3C7JvJxleukBzd_2PSRI2vDw8qrvnlqEL1e1usHveT7_5HknhT9YJ1uC0hAzNDvN1w7L9_U8HrPq7YL77vgR2bA-qoz8mIxc4m-iIanAY0GWTG7MEOxNBwsUAtXinH-7xywanENjE13IcJs1z0dvcWx_GtE8aTgtqzPg0ir5zRQ/s4032/20220826_165041.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7C2tVLS5UP1H_-eG3C7JvJxleukBzd_2PSRI2vDw8qrvnlqEL1e1usHveT7_5HknhT9YJ1uC0hAzNDvN1w7L9_U8HrPq7YL77vgR2bA-qoz8mIxc4m-iIanAY0GWTG7MEOxNBwsUAtXinH-7xywanENjE13IcJs1z0dvcWx_GtE8aTgtqzPg0ir5zRQ/w439-h214/20220826_165041.jpg" width="439" /></a></span></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i><span style="font-size: small;">Marlowe after his first abscess surgery<br /></span></i></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">All was well until the following Tuesday when Marlowe was
looking down in the dumps that morning.<span>
</span>By lunchtime he couldn’t stand up.<span>
</span>I rang the vets’ saying I was bringing Marlowe straight in.<span> </span>We couldn’t fit Cleo in the back this time
because the car fridge was still in there and there was no time to remove
it.<span> </span>Graeme carried a very sick little
Marlowe into the surgery for me, because despite Marlowe still being a little
Saint Bernard, he was now too big a Saint Bernard for me to carry. We were shown into a room immediately and a vet nurse checked Marlowe while we waited for a vet to arrive. <br /></span>
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Amber was our vet this time and couldn’t find a reason for
Marlowe’s collapse.<span> </span>He was running a
high temperature, but the abscess lump didn’t feel that bad to her.<span> </span>We left Marlowe there for a range of tests
and wandered around a park in Wagga to kill time before we could pick our
little fellow up.<span> </span>Amber rang to say
she’d like to keep Marlowe in for the night and was getting one of the senior
vets to consult with her once Rose, the senior vet, returned to the
surgery.<span> </span>The upshot was that the abscess
had re-emerged and was in deep once more.<span>
</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">We returned home without Marlowe and Cleo, who had up
until this time tried to convince us she was not smitten with the puppy, went
looking for him at the back of the car.<span>
</span>When Marlowe didn’t emerge she went to find her squeaky toy, whined, and
mourned him the way she’d mourned the loss of Aslan.<span> </span>I told her that she couldn’t convince us she
didn’t love Marlowe after all, but Cleo was too busy feeling sad.<span> </span>She remained attached to her squeaky toy
until Marlowe returned from the vets’ later the next day.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Rose performed surgery the next day and put a super
dooper drainage system in this time.<span> </span>It
had a little suction bulb attached and I needed to empty it a few times a day
until it was removed.<span> </span>This new drain
warranted Marlowe wearing an old tee shirt of mine because the cone of shame
didn’t work with this new system.<span> </span>The
tee shirt almost lasted the three days before the drain came out, but by the
last day Marlowe, who was feeling a lot better, had reduced it to tatters.<span> </span>Thankfully, the drain was removed and that
was the last we saw of the abscess.<span> </span>Our
vet bill that month was eye watering!<span>
</span>We’d had Cleo to the vets’ twice with her mite problem; Marlowe had his
final booster injection and then two surgeries, all adding up to more money
than I want to think about.<span> </span>They are
worth it though.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrbmv3k_W4Esv8jue8X-hAQWWDthu9qlnGgynHlkH8_Bov0HS77c5Rn3-EDiKMcO0PR-sjVSIlk0Yj18Zd-hOEKQLMgwknEeTE-JVTjKbpx7KmUoaegF8_F1SkGX7i9I5tfCpiNiSXD8hzgdVXkF8N0S-jqhSAoNrbJtgTLr_URTloLAFfLrQPWm__Q/s2448/Marlowe%20090922%20b.pg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrbmv3k_W4Esv8jue8X-hAQWWDthu9qlnGgynHlkH8_Bov0HS77c5Rn3-EDiKMcO0PR-sjVSIlk0Yj18Zd-hOEKQLMgwknEeTE-JVTjKbpx7KmUoaegF8_F1SkGX7i9I5tfCpiNiSXD8hzgdVXkF8N0S-jqhSAoNrbJtgTLr_URTloLAFfLrQPWm__Q/w320-h400/Marlowe%20090922%20b.pg.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><i>Marlowe wearing my old tee shirt to protect the high-tech drainage tube.<br /></i></span></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">After recovering from their various ailments, the puppies
settled down to a firm friendship together.<span>
</span>Soon it was harvest time on Spring Rock and what a harvest it turned out
to be!<span> </span>We, like everyone else on the
east coast of Australia, have had a huge amount of rain this year.<span> </span>This resulted in our paddocks becoming
waterlogged and the springs, from which our farm gets its name, were running in
all the paddocks, and for the first time, even on our farm driveway.<span> </span>This necessitated us having to use firebreaks
to get off the property and only then if it hadn’t actually rained within the
last few hours.<span> There were many days when we couldn't get to the outside world.<br /></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As I mentioned in a post from last year’s harvest, I drive the tractor to unbog the header when it encounters wet patches in the crops. This year I have been called out multiple times a day to rescue Graeme and the header.<span> </span>The routine is, I’d try to get things done
around the house until Graeme rang to say he was bogged,<span> </span>I then drive the tractor out to wherever the
header is and Graeme hitches it and our other tractor up and we tow the
header out of the bog.<span> Earlier in the harvest, I would</span> then stay out
in the paddock in the tractor while Graeme continued harvesting.<span> </span>It really wasn’t worth coming back to the
house, because he invariably became bogged a few more times that day.<span> </span>I started taking a book and a travel mug of
tea out with me and read the days away.<span>
</span>Eventually I put together all the bits and pieces for an appliqué block
for a quilt I’m working on and took an audiobook out as well and I now stitch
the day</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> away</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">.<span> </span>Harvest still isn’t over.<span> </span>We are usually finished well before
Christmas, but this harvest has been drawn out and horrible.<span> </span>We’ll get there though.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Back to the menagerie – everyone is happy and healthy;
Tristan is now 20 years old.<span> </span>I realised
that he’s lived with us longer than any of our children did.<span> </span>I told Graeme that this gives Tristan voting
rights on decisions to be made in the family, and of course, Tristan being
English language (or any language for that matter) challenged, I’ll be his
proxy.<span> </span>Graeme is not in favour of this
democratic turn of events, but Tristan and I outvoted him.<span> </span>Tristan spends most of his day sleeping in
wherever he feels is the most in the way spot he can find, and Graeme and I
arrange ourselves around wherever Tristan has chosen to nap.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggAFEyICQFyUjnZqZqwGs_0zLIZJ3bDbtLRpS2z0w2KK_Syz8mOECkRPBtBUU6pOXIWM5HNhZ4oz36He-Us5l6euQliGrHy_IRd7yruneCMDFxjIL_lNONX2hSrwaWOXnQrX9XwiTZ61ChCgZXDUf2DDR0TpQ5valNeJfyDkhEHdN85oEHil9CgH64kw/s576/Tristan%20031022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="421" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggAFEyICQFyUjnZqZqwGs_0zLIZJ3bDbtLRpS2z0w2KK_Syz8mOECkRPBtBUU6pOXIWM5HNhZ4oz36He-Us5l6euQliGrHy_IRd7yruneCMDFxjIL_lNONX2hSrwaWOXnQrX9XwiTZ61ChCgZXDUf2DDR0TpQ5valNeJfyDkhEHdN85oEHil9CgH64kw/s320/Tristan%20031022.jpg" width="234" /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <i><span style="font-size: small;">Tristan enjoying his winter daybed.<br /></span></i></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Ambrosia, Nefertiti and Venus try to race Tristan to his
personal bed on one of the lounge chairs.<span>
</span>I made up a little padded spot for his old bones a while ago and Tristan
slept most of winter there, but he prefers different sleeping arrangements for
summer so isn’t interested in the winter bed.<span>
</span>The other three cats haven’t realised this and I’m sure they think they
have won again when they settle on Tristan’s bed while he chooses to sleep in
the very middle of the lounge room floor or on my lounge chair, taking up the
whole space so I have to find somewhere else to sit so I don’t wake the old
gentleman.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Hedwig and Hermes have only had one visit from a snake
this summer.<span> </span>They are enjoying the peace
and quiet of not having to call out snake alarms nearly every day as in past
years.<span> </span>We are enjoying not having to go
out to the aviary with the snake deterrer and persuade another brown snake to
leave the cage.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Freya and Charis, the ferrets are doing well.<span> </span>They enjoyed the Christmas decoration time in
the house.<span> </span>I always decorate the top of
their cage with baskets of Christmas flowers, pine-cones and other little
decorations.<span> </span>I then set the ferrets free
each morning to romp among the decorations for a while. <span> </span>They made little pathways, had competitions to
see who could push the most decorations off the top of the cage and generally
created mayhem – mayhem being what ferrets are best at.<span> </span>When the decorations finally came down Freya
and Charis were sad to see their little wonderland disappear, but they manage
to find other ways to create havoc so all is not lost.</span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-3Pv0Ew0jJZfgpz4RM-m5tH8dKwuCZGKZWiVPGM1g4pSGtyVLj5c203qgzcmk7Vd3Fby09kAbbzl2dB11qXq_EV-fYdSdjmMchX2vCZRf7p1U0Y5HnZ78G-B521QBiGVFjvZCbMLsheyRkBYbF7woZPkyP7ETXz6a2FXQWfnMkwHHo6fHYZFSIFaFw/s4032/20211121_150022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-3Pv0Ew0jJZfgpz4RM-m5tH8dKwuCZGKZWiVPGM1g4pSGtyVLj5c203qgzcmk7Vd3Fby09kAbbzl2dB11qXq_EV-fYdSdjmMchX2vCZRf7p1U0Y5HnZ78G-B521QBiGVFjvZCbMLsheyRkBYbF7woZPkyP7ETXz6a2FXQWfnMkwHHo6fHYZFSIFaFw/w300-h400/20211121_150022.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i><span style="font-size: small;">Freyer and Charis celebrating Christmas<br /></span></i></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The inhabitants of the chook yard have been playing
musical yards.<span> </span>The chook yard is divided
up into three yards – a large, general yard, a smaller, but still spacious yard
where Phoenix used to live and the Silkies’ yard, which again, is quite spacious.<span> </span>When Phoenix died, I opened the gate between
his yard and the main yard giving everyone in the main yard a bigger area to use.<span> </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I have three roosters – Opportunity, a
beautiful little Silky rooster who was supposed to live with George and Emu,
our two Silky hens, Monster, who was an egg Emu hatched (Monster is a
Faverolle, Hamburg cross so a very large rooster) and Henry, our Hamburg
rooster.<span> Henry was purchased as a hen and disagreed with the diagnosis of his gender and Opportunity came here to live because he was crowing to loudly in a back yard in my daughter in law's mother's urban home. </span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Opportunity lived with the
Silky girls for a few weeks and decided life was too quiet in the Silky yard
(which just happens to be exactly how George and Emu like it).<span> </span>He then jumped over the dividing fence, only
to find Henry in residence.<span> </span>The fact that Henry is three times Opportunity’s size
didn’t faze our intrepid little fellow.<span>
</span>Opportunity bashed Henry up and told him there was more of that to come
if Henry still thought he was top rooster in the yard.<span> </span>Henry, who is not a brave rooster at all, now
keeps himself as far away from Opportunity as he can.<span> </span>If he finds himself close to Opportunity
accidentally, Henry will squawk in panic and run to the end of the chook
yard.<span> </span>I’ve tried putting Henry in with
the Silkies – they were against this idea and turfed him out.<span> </span>I’ve tried putting Henry in Phoenix’s old yard,
but Henry hates being in there with all the action going on in the other yard,
so Henry stays in the main yard and makes sure he keeps out of Opportunity’s
way.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Monster began life with the Silkies when Emu hatched him, and was happy to
share their yard.<span> </span>One day he decided to
try the main yard, just to see what the other chooks were enjoying.<span> </span>He stayed there for a few weeks, being
bullied by Opportunity and commiserating with Henry.<span> </span>I put Monster back with the Silkies a few
times when the main yard threatened to become a war zone, but the next morning
would find Monster back in the main yard.<span>
</span>Then, one day, for no apparent reason, Monster decided he’d had enough
of the exciting life and moved back in with his mum, Emu and Aunty George.<span> </span>Life in the chook yard has now settled down
to peace and quiet.<span> </span>I wish the same
could be said of the puppies.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's all fun and games here
at the moment. Cleo, who is now an old lady, has come into season.<span> </span>She is nine years old and should be thinking
of a quiet retirement instead of putting romantic ideas into silly, young dog’s heads.
<span> </span>I've Googled to see if it existed, but
found there's no such thing as doggy menopause. Marlowe, who is nine
months old and in his difficult teenage doggy years, thinks that coming into
season was a very good idea of Cleo's. He hadn’t realised she could be so
interesting, but is definitely happy to take advantage of this new
situation.<span> </span>I, on the other hand, am very
much against Marlowe taking advantage of the situation.<span> </span>I have come up with a system whereby I alternate
locking one of the puppies in the laundry and giving the other a couple of
hours of freedom. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cleo is all in favour of
being sequestered on whichever side of the laundry door she finds herself - she knows she's too old to consider being a first time mum.
Cleo has reached the age where lying in the sun or shade, depending on the
weather, or even better, on the kitchen floor, relaxing her days away and
occasionally joining in a game of tug of war with young Marlowe, is her idea of
a day well spent. Cleo is looking for a peaceful, old age just whiling away the
hours snoozing or eating.<span> </span>Puppies would
mean an end to all the peace, not to mention the dangers of an old age
pregnancy.<span> </span>No, Cleo feels life is good
just the way it is.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Marlowe on the other hand is
all in favour of teenage fatherhood. He is full of energy, bigger than
Cleo now, and feeling his wild oats – wild oats that he definitely wants to
sow.<span> </span>Marlowe objects strongly to being
on the other side of the laundry door to Cleo.<span>
</span>He has stated he doesn’t mind if he’s in the laundry or outside the laundry
as long as Cleo is inside or outside with him.<span>
</span>To express his displeasure clearly at having a door between him and his
newfound love, Marlowe has nearly destroyed the laundry door, scratching and
complaining that just when Cleo got to be very interesting he's no longer
allowed to play with her. Cleo, comfortable on whichever side of the door
she finds herself, just rolls her eyes and goes back to sleep. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Graeme, on the other hand,
has no patience for teenage, love-struck puppies who try to tear down the
barrier between himself and his true love.<span> </span>Things
are being said. I'm doing my best to pretend I don't hear those things
that are said and just change the dogs over and hope Marlowe learns a bit of self-control.
Thinking back to the human teenage boys I knew way back when, I'm not hopeful about
the self-control bit though.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, as you can imagine, my
days have been full. Is it any wonder it has taken me so long to write
another blog post?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wg5dchUlMQ4uvxF5vNLwCxNFdn51wPmIr3HlNwQX-N9X6HKz4R-JGhZ700hdCrvML6b_fbSyOqUxrhemhzOzCF6QVP2Ci-pENAbK9MYYmijVqKsjRbJmf9IaYxdjil7S3tsWeD095sosKR0ryQJ0UmBNLdfpAyOsNEc28Di-xxG7GrFbKY8WhNKaiA/s4032/20230114_170925.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wg5dchUlMQ4uvxF5vNLwCxNFdn51wPmIr3HlNwQX-N9X6HKz4R-JGhZ700hdCrvML6b_fbSyOqUxrhemhzOzCF6QVP2Ci-pENAbK9MYYmijVqKsjRbJmf9IaYxdjil7S3tsWeD095sosKR0ryQJ0UmBNLdfpAyOsNEc28Di-xxG7GrFbKY8WhNKaiA/w195-h400/20230114_170925.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i><span style="font-size: small;">Cleo and Marlowe pre Cleo's season </span></i></span></span></span><br /></div><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><p></p></div>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-10809241932085291102022-09-05T11:15:00.001+10:002022-09-05T11:15:05.427+10:00Introducing Marlowe<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtSkpbe1yW41pfvL5MHBVgN1iNLJw-lnT7_dvyshrY6Zim2jnJMZT5Nr0svFsW3PS3Ym3MmYzgs4RYD90xIrc6oq4GFuapHs7C060X7mgPf0VAJM2-YIKBp2vQA3QZK0WYNK0At4PG8UStSkv7zjY9_NcbF9V6Qbj2PI2JK40B4GGJ07asYVAbr82aw/s4032/20220608_164537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtSkpbe1yW41pfvL5MHBVgN1iNLJw-lnT7_dvyshrY6Zim2jnJMZT5Nr0svFsW3PS3Ym3MmYzgs4RYD90xIrc6oq4GFuapHs7C060X7mgPf0VAJM2-YIKBp2vQA3QZK0WYNK0At4PG8UStSkv7zjY9_NcbF9V6Qbj2PI2JK40B4GGJ07asYVAbr82aw/w300-h400/20220608_164537.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Marlowe a week after he arrived at Spring Rock</i></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I began looking for a Saint Bernard pup back at the
end of March I realised I had a problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I applied to go on a waiting list with two breeders who had advertised
they had litters due soon, but neither breeder got back to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine their waiting list was so big I
didn’t stand a chance of getting one of their pups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I contacted Ann, Aslan’s breeder, to ask if
she knew of anyone who had a litter of pups due which I might contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ann replied that she had a litter due in
April.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wasn’t advertising this
because she had a waiting list of 35 people, but because Ann knew, I’d give one
of her pups a very happy forever home she offered to put me way up the
list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I jumped at the offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aslan’s beautiful personality and calm
attitude to life wasn’t a fluke – Ann breeds for those qualities and I was
confident that any pup bought from Ann would be a great pet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In early April Ann contacted me to say a littler of six
had been born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were four girls and
two boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was promised a boy and Ann
would send progress photos so I could choose which boy I wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the weeks passed and the puppy photos just
got cuter and cuter, I set my heart on the boy with the little spot in the
middle of his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ann told me this is
called a monk’s cap in Saint Bernards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
enlisted my youngest granddaughter, Molly’s, help in naming the pup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made a list of possible names and together
we chose Marlowe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been reading
about the Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe recently and thought his
surname would make a great dog’s name – Molly agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiqoOJVttnE1asagTTGEzN1tEJAYR-k-gm3RfZKTkQWmziUE1k14LzYlpLvk8xOZZfKRrufsBfn5Fa_dIu6j3mCE1rhJmYja8fqrIrxwVDMnwJAMunS5iLN_vgtqgdnjxkIAZhWtQWewhj1aqtaV2VDuMjZkccjafWKCYlJI5xHmwdjKPvRxhfiR96w/s1008/Resized_20220409_171357.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiqoOJVttnE1asagTTGEzN1tEJAYR-k-gm3RfZKTkQWmziUE1k14LzYlpLvk8xOZZfKRrufsBfn5Fa_dIu6j3mCE1rhJmYja8fqrIrxwVDMnwJAMunS5iLN_vgtqgdnjxkIAZhWtQWewhj1aqtaV2VDuMjZkccjafWKCYlJI5xHmwdjKPvRxhfiR96w/w300-h400/Resized_20220409_171357.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Marlowe is the puppy at the back with the spot on his head.</i></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When I placed the deposit for Marlowe, I told Ann his
name.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Ann started to call the pup
Marlowe so he became used to the name.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">All there was to do now was waiting for Marlowe to reach eight weeks
old.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Ann was bringing him down to me and
we were to meet at her friend’s home in Goulburn.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Finally, the day arrived and we drove to
Goulburn with all sorts of puppy comforts onboard.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We met Ann at her friend’s place and I
immediately made friends with a Chihuahua who also lived there.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She was on my lap and soaking up pats while
Marlowe and two of his sisters slept in the back room.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Eventually it was time to put the Chihuahua
down and go meet Marlowe.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He was
reluctant to leave his sisters so I picked him up and carried him to the lounge
room.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After some quick thank you’s and
goodbyes (Marlowe was quite a weight to carry so I needed to get to the car) we
took our precious bundle and a huge puppy pack, a gift from Ann to help ensure
a quick settling in period for Marlowe, to the car.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The drive home was uneventful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe travelled well and was happy to share
our company on the four and a half hour trip home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once home we were greeted by Cleo who, upon
seeing the little fluff ball gave us a “how could you?” look and walked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This came as a bit of a surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo has always loved puppies and taken them
to her heart as soon as she’s had a chance to rub noses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo clearly felt she was now too old for
puppy nonsense and resisted Marlowe’s efforts to win her over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully, as time went on, Cleo became fond
of Marlowe and was content to doze in the sun with Marlowe curled up beside
her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Like Cleo and Aslan, I’d decided to take weekly photos of
Marlowe’s growth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike Aslan, Marlowe is
an energetic, playful puppy (Aslan was always quiet and laid back) who doesn’t sit
or stand still for selfies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting Graeme,
Marlowe and me in the same place once a week to pictorially record his increasing
size proved difficult, and like many second or third children, there aren’t as many
photos of Marlowe as there are of Cleo and Aslan as puppies.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiKkly_7-6gIPJxyezfZdRwtTDmam_15ip-BmmHovXSlkbDPkCaG4VdXNUL58GkRe-nNcjmR4vLdjchqPKrDC7jHZH_KVc7DStQhB0DXFfYyBkQdBh1EEX7xf-AWTC9Nw0StefNFLmUC4cOYGR3i-hYYYch29zsPba_sjJkVGIl19gGbWXRQIP8AS5g/s3024/20220608_165105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2608" data-original-width="3024" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiKkly_7-6gIPJxyezfZdRwtTDmam_15ip-BmmHovXSlkbDPkCaG4VdXNUL58GkRe-nNcjmR4vLdjchqPKrDC7jHZH_KVc7DStQhB0DXFfYyBkQdBh1EEX7xf-AWTC9Nw0StefNFLmUC4cOYGR3i-hYYYch29zsPba_sjJkVGIl19gGbWXRQIP8AS5g/w400-h345/20220608_165105.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When the time came for Marlowe to have his booster vaccination,
we drove him and Cleo to the vets’.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Cleo
always enjoys a car ride and we didn’t want her seeing Marlowe off on a jaunt
with her left behind.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sharing the back
of the car with Marlowe was a bit fraught for poor Cleo.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Marlowe wasn’t yet sure if he liked car rides
or not and constantly demanded Cleo’s attention to reassure him this wasn’t the
end of the world.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Cleo put up with
Marlowe’s antics and did her best to enjoy the ride despite him.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I had to carry Marlowe into the vets’ because he wasn’t
fully vaccinated yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo and Graeme
waited in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened the door to
the surgery with my little bundle of fluff in my arms and saw that there were
two vet nurses, the receptionist and two clients in the waiting room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I walked in all five people said, “Awww,”
at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe, who was glad
he was out of the car and up close and personal to me barely paid attention to
everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat in a chair with Marlowe
on my lap and he noticed the receptionist working away on her computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe became engrossed on her and wouldn’t
take his eyes off her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must have
looked up from time to time because she finally said, “Marlowe, I can’t work
with you looking at me like that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
soon as he heard his name, Marlowe’s back end started wagging on my lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The receptionist came around the counter and
asked if she could have a cuddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
handed Marlowe over, sure that it was fine with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe loves cuddles and doesn’t care who is
giving them to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The receptionist
then asked if she could take Marlowe out the back to show “those who weren’t
lucky enough to see Marlowe when he arrived”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I said yes and she disappeared for quite a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure Marlowe was holding the inaugural
Marlowe Appreciation Club meeting, many of whose members were in the Aslan
Appreciation Club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When Marlowe was returned, he and the receptionist were
best friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sat on my lap until it
was our turn to see the vet and wagged his tail every time the receptionist
looked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They must have bonded while
out the back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleo’s patience was tried sorely during Marlowe’s
difficult Terrible Two’s months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
still had his baby teeth and they both annoyed him and were very sharp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought him a range of chew toys, but
Marlowe’s favourite chew toy was Cleo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cleo ended up having to visit the vet because she’d broken out in bare,
itchy patches of skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clay, our vet
this time, thought they were hot spots, caused my Marlowe’s teeth breaking
Cleo’s skin and then bugs getting into the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clay said unfortunately Marlowe was likely to
chew on Cleo until his adult teeth started to come in at around the age of six
months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was glad Cleo wasn’t
proficient in English or she might have left home after that piece of
news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, we stopped Marlowe
chewing on Cleo whenever we saw him with her ear or paw in his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo was no help at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wouldn’t bark or grumble about being a
large, hairy chew toy for the pup and would simply put up with it unless
Marlowe caused her a significant amount of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was forever telling Cleo to tell him off,
but the most Cleo did was give us an imploring look to detach the puppy
please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe is now five months old,
and has mostly stopped gnawing on Cleo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We still find him with his teeth attached to Cleo from time to time, but
the frequency we find him doing so is getting fewer and fewer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Marlowe loves to accompany me on my rounds to tend to the
outside members of the menagerie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you
might expect, this can sometimes be a bit fraught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I now clean out the fishpond pump I have
to keep a careful eye on exactly where Marlowe is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even with my ever-vigilant checks, Marlowe
has managed to fall into the fishpond twice!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fishpond is not that big, and Marlowe managed to fill most of the
available space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the fish think of
these four hairy legs, attached to huge puppy feet, I don’t know, but I’m sure
they are against such invasions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe
panicked the first time he took an unplanned dip in the pond, which made
getting him out that much worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both
ended up soaked and Marlowe vowed to give the pond a wide birth after
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course when the next time came
to clean the pump Marlowe had forgotten the trauma of falling in and once again
ended up in the pond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time it was
only his front feet, but they proved almost as wet and difficult to extract as
the entire puppy did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo, who also
likes to accompany me on my rounds, just rolled her eyes and reminded me that
this puppy was all my idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TsDnzpIWYNQNbx05wlW09P1VB88sR-3wVeumKCSV_DFSM6xbY9y32Da_nnEB9MFL_p-ecaJO9sVlizZVnY74cK0MbuJISSfWBdbGq70EOIOBZgwtxJ2IJuhyWzBQWLHSd4AHXzY1aImXAJ45kq1ye8lJseKeoOQxwmJFP2L7JKpQj0qw2p8sDO8-KA/s4032/20220629_155605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TsDnzpIWYNQNbx05wlW09P1VB88sR-3wVeumKCSV_DFSM6xbY9y32Da_nnEB9MFL_p-ecaJO9sVlizZVnY74cK0MbuJISSfWBdbGq70EOIOBZgwtxJ2IJuhyWzBQWLHSd4AHXzY1aImXAJ45kq1ye8lJseKeoOQxwmJFP2L7JKpQj0qw2p8sDO8-KA/w400-h195/20220629_155605.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I gave Cleo and Marlowe a treat each in different parts of the kitchen. Marlowe picked up his treat and placed it between Cleo's front legs. They then both settled down to enjoying their own treats.</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The galahs have declared war on Marlowe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I enter their aviary I do my best to
exclude Marlowe, but the gate is a bit tricky to completely close from the
inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe takes full advantage of
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time he ventured into
their cage he was just an interested tourist, checking out the new sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hedwig and Hermes suspected he was up to no
good and immediately went on the offensive, spreading their wings and
screeching at the top of their voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marlowe, who was surprised to see this bad tempered display tried to
explain that he was just looking while I dragged him out by the collar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since then he’s only managed to get a foot or
two into the aviary but the galahs are ready for him and voice their opinion on
this ever-enlarging dog invading their home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I allowed Marlowe to come into the chook pen with me from
the first day he arrived home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hoped
that by being familiar with the inhabitants of the chook yard Marlowe would be
less inclined to dispatch any chook that managed to escape while he was out and
about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first couple of weeks went
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe acknowledged the chooks’
presence and was content to wander around the yard, introducing himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, he discovered a wonderful game
and has now been banned from entering the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marlowe discovered that he could sneak up on an unsuspecting hen, grab
her tail in his mouth and then just hold on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As soon as the hen realised she was caught she’d start clucking madly,
flapping her wings and trying to break free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marlowe didn’t think there was a better game in the world that
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hen had a very different
opinion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to the chook’s rescue,
told Marlowe<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a firm NO! and resumed my
feeding and egg collecting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marlowe
wondered if the same reaction was to be found by grabbing another hen by the
tail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy oh joy it was!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I said earlier, Marlowe is now banned from
entering the chook pen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He still
accompanies me to the chook yard, but has resigned himself to remaining outside
and just remembering the fun of grabbing a chook’s tail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Marlowe is now five months old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the above took place during the first two
months after he arrived home with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
is now a beloved member of my menagerie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marlowe is a bit of a scamp and is always full of beans and
mischief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo, who is an elderly lady these
days, has come to love him, and they spend their days together lying in the sun
or snuggled together out of the rain on their beds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the vets who was a big Aslan fan, told Marlowe
he had big shoes to fill. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her there
would never be another Aslan, but also I’m sure there will never be another Marlowe
– he is making his own place in the world and is confident that he will be loved
by all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he’s right.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWkUWdgZlKmwHGXnX4vV2x7D-nhIwJsvLCGUSO4PJQD8sIlMk8dzoArIwm2jDGa9BQn_wtUETTlJvqkDYOFiAHJfHt00wnSITSH6Dz6tkjDGoY7bZFUWl3iAtoivJAiLIjQWPdIFrRGhiZ1lhfS3C6-8g5eZsNyXDSA1ziDuk6iwTiVjTjb66FNqc3cA/s576/Cleo%20and%20Marlowe%20090722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="442" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWkUWdgZlKmwHGXnX4vV2x7D-nhIwJsvLCGUSO4PJQD8sIlMk8dzoArIwm2jDGa9BQn_wtUETTlJvqkDYOFiAHJfHt00wnSITSH6Dz6tkjDGoY7bZFUWl3iAtoivJAiLIjQWPdIFrRGhiZ1lhfS3C6-8g5eZsNyXDSA1ziDuk6iwTiVjTjb66FNqc3cA/w308-h400/Cleo%20and%20Marlowe%20090722.jpg" width="308" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-59114466301813583902022-07-10T10:22:00.005+10:002022-07-11T08:44:51.452+10:00Too Many Tractor Hours<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ob5HX-uRU109GPbsA4taeLh__vTeTtaK-ZV8CiokVacjhfm9j_JhCK6ZP1M0bkDc6RQenY2bsiYj5yLIAxdrXZxZXVmm6gEv-wRFd9U-8OwjcjciFARaPVaM7RvfmK4_93kgw27QozuEyeLGDNaqJKg1Q_HZ5jgRLQdFahPda7Lvh6gBQ3yV7Hf18Q/s460/img%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="345" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ob5HX-uRU109GPbsA4taeLh__vTeTtaK-ZV8CiokVacjhfm9j_JhCK6ZP1M0bkDc6RQenY2bsiYj5yLIAxdrXZxZXVmm6gEv-wRFd9U-8OwjcjciFARaPVaM7RvfmK4_93kgw27QozuEyeLGDNaqJKg1Q_HZ5jgRLQdFahPda7Lvh6gBQ3yV7Hf18Q/w480-h640/img%20(1).jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This is a rare, no members of the menagerie involved, post. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Well, my tractor driving yesterday was an adventure and a half. I ended up sending my kids a text message saying I'm clocking up too many tractor hours. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Graeme recently bought himself a fertiliser spreader and has been purchasing fertiliser in the truck half a load at a time. The our farm driveway is in a dreadful mess with all this water lying around. The truck cannot make it through this slush without being towed by the tractor. I'm the tractor driver. All has gone smoothly so far and then this happened ...</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">To start with it was raining (Yay! because Graeme had spread the fertiliser and it needs rain to wash into the soil; Boo! because the tractor's windscreen wiper rubber has deteriorated and doesn't work), our already soggy roadway is just that much worse in the rain. To add to my level of difficulty Graeme had left the spreader attached at the back of the tractor. It's not a tow behind type of arrangement, but rather it sort of latches on close to the tractor and can be raised and lowered. When raised I can't see a thing out the back, when lowered it's not much trouble at all - guess which position it had to stay in - yep, raised.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I drove out to the front gate and left Graeme to drive the truck out through the firebreaks. He believes that way is less sloshy, but I don't like it at all. I got through the Top Gate (after yesterday, now known as The Gate I Hate - the reason for this comes later) and my phone beeped at me. Graeme had been trying to ring me almost since I'd left to tell me to come back because the truck couldn't make it up the slight incline almost where I'd left him. It was only once I drove out of a black spot area on the farm that I got the message. I found a spot to turn around and headed back. When I saw where Graeme was, I stopped the tractor and rang him to tell him I wasn't towing him out via the firebreaks. After trying to convince me to do it his way, and me standing firm, refusing to go out via the firebreaks, Graeme finally relented, but he wasn't happy. Graeme had the tow cable all set up and had to undo it all so he could drive the truck to where I was waiting for him and re-setup the towing cable. That done and the truck hooked up to the tractor, we swapped phones so I could use Graeme's noise cancelling headphones with his phone for us to communicate. I keep telling Graeme he's deaf and he won't believe me, but when he spoke to me via the phones, the volume nearly took my head off. A quick lesson on how to reduce the volume and we were ready to go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>With the spreader up in the air and the side mirrors set for a 6 feet tall Graeme, I couldn't see the truck at all, apart from the very top of its yellow roof. I kept reminding Graeme that I couldn't see anything but he seemed to keep forgetting this small fact. Even my front visibility was hampered by a wet windscreen and no wipers. We trundled along reasonably easily despite these problems until we reached the Top Gate. The approach to this gate coming from the house towards the property's front gate is uphill and at a right angle to the roadway. This has never been a problem for me in the cars and when driving the tractor, but with the double wheels on the back, I slow down to an almost stop and creep my way through - so far no dramas. As we approached the gate this time, I told Graeme I wasn't great at driving through it so be prepared for me to slow down and creep through. Guess what! When towing a truck up a wet and soggy hill you can't drop your speed or the revs dramatically and not stall the tractor. I chose not to stall the tractor, said a little prayer and drove through the gateway. Immediately Graeme started yelling, "STOP! STOP! STOP!” I stopped, but the designer of the joystick arrangement for changing gears for the tractor had a warped sense of humour. You push the joy stick forward to go, flick it to the right to go up a gear, left to go down and pull it back to the middle for neutral - all good so far, but! you also pull it back just a little bit further for reverse. You guessed it, I pulled the joystick back too far. After a moment of confused panic, I put the tractor in neutral and waited for Graeme to tell me what was wrong </span>wrong –
apart from my unintentional reversing adventure. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The angle of my approach may have gotten the tractor through the gate but the truck was somehow aiming right for the gatepost. Graeme told me to reverse the tractor back through the gate and not hit anything – I really didn’t need that last bit of advice, it’s not like I ever <i><u>plan</u> </i>on hitting anything. I once again reminded him that I couldn't see out the back at all and the side mirrors just showed me acres of paddocks and not the gate. With a lot of indecipherable hand signals, much yelling from Graeme and some mumbled words from me, the tractor was finally where Graeme wanted it. I then had a second go at driving through the gateway of the now, renamed Gate I Hate. There were no further dramas in the towing of the truck.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As I was driving along, I heard a beeping in my ear and asked Graeme what that might be. Graeme said someone was trying to ring him, most likely Brendan, the farmer who was having the fertiliser delivered and to where Graeme was heading with the truck now. Graeme said that he, Graeme would hang up now and ring Brendon back. Now it was my turn to yell. I told Graeme under no circumstances was he to hang up. I once again reminded him I couldn't see anything and the only way I knew nothing dire had occurred was that Graeme was calm and quiet on the other end of the phone (or calmish and quietish, but I didn’t say that to him). Graeme decided that an hysterical wife driving a tractor took precedence over a farmer trying to find out where Graeme was and stayed on the phone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I towed him past all the slushy, boggy bits of roadway and stopped, waiting for Graeme to unhitch the tractor and rethinking my entire life until now and wondering how I got myself in these situations. Graeme unhitched the truck, gave me a cheery wave and drove off to meet Brendon. I drove back to the house, still rethinking my life. During this whole episode, all I could think of was the monetary value of the truck, tractor and brand new spreader that were all at the mercy of my limited tractor driving skills and lack of ability to see what was going on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Thankfully,
it is still raining so Graeme isn't going to get the truck back today.
When he does, I will have the joy of doing all the above in reverse order –
hopefully, with the spreader removed (if I have my way) and with a lack of rain;
or at the very least a working windscreen wiper.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-30364478784648663222022-06-06T17:50:00.011+10:002022-06-23T07:17:14.984+10:00 The Great Escape 2<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX31kFEG_HrhIcv-_75fygkWIzRZiu-_6M4BJkr1L2a_qigkhoVKLxEuXWU9LKwjti3LDBQ5ZY08q_gMXTIviJ9TNBcCoRWs9A-mBAsBWLOgksbp6lrCkTs2V3Ez5okqKdYZN7OFk2fswcdSiNeFp-G9Ta1rpnjYvnqISAIAMillZLPUds3jso5Xy2Tw/s2048/100_2749.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX31kFEG_HrhIcv-_75fygkWIzRZiu-_6M4BJkr1L2a_qigkhoVKLxEuXWU9LKwjti3LDBQ5ZY08q_gMXTIviJ9TNBcCoRWs9A-mBAsBWLOgksbp6lrCkTs2V3Ez5okqKdYZN7OFk2fswcdSiNeFp-G9Ta1rpnjYvnqISAIAMillZLPUds3jso5Xy2Tw/s320/100_2749.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Hedwig has been having adventures in the
wild once again.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A few years ago, Hedwig
and Hermes were on the run for about a week https://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-great-escape.html.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When I say on the run, they didn’t run far.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Basically, they barely left the house yard in
all that time.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’d go outside to feed
the chooks and look for my wayward galahs, and find them in a nearby tree or on
the house or a shed roof.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Hedwig would
venture closer to have a chat and tell me of her adventures, but Hermes made
sure she didn’t get too close.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He’d
shepherd her further up the tree or roof, in case I got ideas about grabbing
them.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">While Hermes is fit for life in the wild,
poor Hedwig isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sustained damage
to her wing and leg when she had the encounter with a car when very young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nursed her back to health after the wildlife
rescue service chose not to take her on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The advice they gave me was exactly where to hit her with a blunt
instrument to put her down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I objected
to this, so I was deputised to care for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hermes was rescued from an encounter with a car a year later and he was
able to be restored to full health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
intended for Hermes to be set free but, when the time came, Hermes refused to
leave Hedwig.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">The escaped pair was eventually wrangled
back into their aviary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stress
Hedwig had endured during the week of freedom was obvious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had pulled out a large area of her breast
feathers and was a nervous wreck for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After her week of freedom, which she definitely didn't enjoy, Hedwig has
decided that the caged life is the happy life for her and stays put. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">On Sunday afternoon last week, Hedwig and
Hermes were having a tantrum because some sparrows had made their way into the
cage and were eating their seed. These tantrums are quite common and neither
Hedwig nor Hermes deals with the sparrows themselves, despite being three times
the sparrows' size. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They prefer to
screech and carry on until I arrive and sort out their problem for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have been late to answer their call,
because by the time I arrived to de-sparrow the aviary both galahs were in a
snit.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">As I entered the aviary, which is usually
the signal for all sparrows to make a fast exit, sparrows flew everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most managed to escape, but two sparrows
panicked and couldn't find their way out of the wire. I slightly opened
the aviary door and escorted the two sparrows towards the opening.
Hedwig, who was still screeching and flapping her wings, ended up flying out
the door. Hedwig had no intention of leaving the aviary I'm sure; I can
usually leave the door open and she will show no inclination to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once out the door she did a U-turn and landed
on the aviary roof, clearly wondering how she had got there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think she'd got herself into a flap about
the sparrows and ended up on the wrong side of the door without realising it.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">I couldn't leave the cage door open for
her to re-enter though because Hermes is all in favour on the wild bird life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While he has two strong wings and two strong
legs, Hedwig doesn't and wouldn't survive long in the wild if he took her away
from the house yard. As Hedwig alighted on the roof of the aviary, she
proceeded to scold me for letting her escape. I did my best to try to see
exactly where she was on the aviary roof, but I’m too short to see the whole
roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hedwig had no intentions of coming
quietly; she was in a temper and wanted everyone to know it. As I moved
around the aviary trying to locate her, Hedwig continued to scold and
grumble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hermes moved to the perch closest
to the sounds of Hedwig’s grumbling, but he couldn’t see her either and he became
a bit flustered himself, offering me all sorts of advice to open the door and let
him fly to Hedwig’s rescue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called
Graeme out for back up and found the Chinese Silkies' bag of sunflower seeds to
use as a bribe. </span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">My first attempt at bribery wasn't a
complete success. Hedwig sidled up to get to the seeds and munched away
happily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mood appeared to improve,
but on reflection I realise I was lulled into a false sense of security.
When I put the hand not holding the sunflower seeds up for her to step onto,
Hedwig remembered her temper tantrum and bit me. Graeme was ready there
and then to abandon Hedwig and let her live with the consequences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm made of sterner stuff, but Graeme's stern
voice and anti-Hedwig sentiments made Hedwig rethink her spot on the aviary
roof where she was easily reached by a six foot, cross Graeme. She flew
to the house roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Landed awkwardly and couldn't
get her footing on the roof’s slope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
slowly slid down the corrugated iron, scrabbling for purchase she couldn’t
find, and landed in the guttering. From this rather unusual vantage point,
she looked down on me with a superior air and tried to look like she’d intended
to roof ski all along.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">"And that's why you aren't fit for
the wild world!" I told her. Hedwig agreed she wasn't keen on
the wild world either, but she was still cross. She flew back to the
aviary roof and moved down close enough for me to catch her. Hedwig
wasn’t admitting to her mistake though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She chattered and scolded, demanding more sunflower seed, while
“accidentally” stopping within my reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I took hold, Hedwig dug her beak into my hand and screeched all sorts
of insults at me. Graeme offered advice, such as to let her go, and
genuinely couldn't understand why I was still holding the nasty galah who had
her beak firmly sunk into my finger. I asked Graeme (through gritted
teeth) to go and stand by the cage door and open it when I finally got Hedwig
to the door. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">The short trip to the aviary door was
fraught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hedwig was not going gently
into that good night despite the fact I knew she really was sorry she was on the
wrong side of the aviary door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
screeched around beak-fulls of my skin, tried to flap her wings and generally
made the short trip both painful and noisy.</span></p>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Hedwig was finally restored to the
aviary, cursing and screeching the whole time. My two hands were rather
mangled and she'd managed to draw blood in two places. Once she was
safely inside, Hermes, who had been watching the proceedings from the aviary
perch, came over to check his best friend for injuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hedwig’s bad mood prevailed and poor Hermes
received an earful of insults and accusations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hermes, who is used to dealing with Hedwig during her hormonal times,
knows the better part of valour is discretion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He beat a strategic retreat and left Hedwig to her bad temper. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOmUqCe1MZ1FzIgsvxn1ybLyUxxnXps0YCkLnGLhiP74MPvysXbUfwpdd2iwe2fBqVUN4OzSK2lwMq9_Ce0N_zGwk7unq-pTxyrNwl1UcKu4cQ357WCJxic4u9KNJBn5e1Wes3b7mAsUrtQd0HYZZi6QpI9pRiGPzuRtiYBpF9XeXarAuj8Ihy6NGEQ/s497/116719147_2418678615094718_2925608805082981964_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOmUqCe1MZ1FzIgsvxn1ybLyUxxnXps0YCkLnGLhiP74MPvysXbUfwpdd2iwe2fBqVUN4OzSK2lwMq9_Ce0N_zGwk7unq-pTxyrNwl1UcKu4cQ357WCJxic4u9KNJBn5e1Wes3b7mAsUrtQd0HYZZi6QpI9pRiGPzuRtiYBpF9XeXarAuj8Ihy6NGEQ/w225-h400/116719147_2418678615094718_2925608805082981964_n.jpg" width="225" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I closed the cage door and told Hedwig I
too was cross.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I had two mangled, sore
hands and had not enjoyed the experience one bit.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Hedwig just gave me a beady-eyed look and
continued to grumble under her breath.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I
told her she was in my bad books for the foreseeable future, but I might forgive
her by the time my poor hands finally healed. Hedwig just gave me a
look.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I could almost hear her reply of,
"Whatever”.</span></span><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-1721677412119337362022-05-19T10:20:00.002+10:002022-05-19T10:20:52.958+10:00Update On Cleo<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKJBq8XY3XkbHaiksDQ014t9klcGzD9yJLHSbGGbDdk7J2QA-cAsi4oHl8YDeKpw8iakZlWiKQ9r9LcCJoCT-44QtJo5RocdvWrvpsMm4XUPHdlkPq_ExKqvWZn-NMtk7VoSNLbec_iUpCigCAjhVfLSetCOVwx79EyfXv6mR2paSUFzmHfnQODMI3A/s2467/20220306_115147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2467" data-original-width="2070" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKJBq8XY3XkbHaiksDQ014t9klcGzD9yJLHSbGGbDdk7J2QA-cAsi4oHl8YDeKpw8iakZlWiKQ9r9LcCJoCT-44QtJo5RocdvWrvpsMm4XUPHdlkPq_ExKqvWZn-NMtk7VoSNLbec_iUpCigCAjhVfLSetCOVwx79EyfXv6mR2paSUFzmHfnQODMI3A/s320/20220306_115147.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Cleo with her very grubby squeaky toy. Now she's no longer emotionally attached to it it has had a wash.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleo has had a difficult time adjusting to the loss of
Aslan, but she’s finally returning to her normal, happy self.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When we arrived home after having Aslan euthanised Cleo
ran to the car to us and her best friend.
When Aslan didn’t emerge from the back of the car, Cleo was confused,
but I think, expected him to show up soon.
As the days past and no Aslan appeared, Cleo began to mourn his
loss. She continually checked the back
of the car, hoping Aslan would emerge; she searched the house-yard for him and
became inseparably attached to her pink squeaky toy. She cried a great deal. Her whines only added to my sorrow and we
mourned the death of our beautiful Aslan together.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleo didn’t want to let us out of her sight. She spent all day inside, mostly just
sleeping with her trusty squeaky toy by her side. If she came inside without it, she wouldn’t
settle until I figured out the problem and retrieved the toy for her. Why the squeaky toy became such an emotional
crutch for Cleo I don’t know; she had spent years trying to get Aslan to play
tug of war with her and the toy, but Aslan would chase Cleo around the yard
quite happily, but never understood the role the squeaky toy was supposed to
play. Before the loss of Aslan, Graeme
or I would often have a tug of war with the toy and Cleo. She would run and find the toy and rush back
to us and the game would begin. I think
she preferred Graeme as an opponent because she was allowed to pull with all
her strength – with me she had to pull gently so as not to hurt my back. These games ceased the day Aslan didn’t
return. Graeme and I tried tugging on
the squeaky toy, but Cleo would just let go and give us a pitiful look. We stopped trying to start a game with her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As time went on Cleo began to stop looking for Aslan, the
whining stopped and eventually the squeaky toy wasn’t her constant
companion. I can’t say she was a happy
puppy, but things were improving. Cleo’s
period of mourning lasted months. I
began looking for a Saint Bernard pup in the hope that Cleo would fall in love
with it and be happy again. Saint
Bernard pups are rare in Australia at the moment by the looks of things. I found one breeder with a long waiting list
to whom I emailed a request to be added – two months later and I haven’t heard
back from them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I contacted Aslan’s breeder to see if she knew of any
litters for sale or due to be born. She
replied that she had a litter due in April and a waiting list of 35. She offered to put me at the top of the list
if I’d like to buy a puppy from her, as well as sizeable discount on the price
of the pup. The breeder told me that she
knew a pup that came to live with me would have a loving forever home and that
was important to her. I said yes
immediately, but it meant that there was going to be a twelve week wait. The chance to get a pup bred by the same
woman who bred Aslan was wonderful. She
breeds her dogs for the temperament and personality for which Aslan was famous
around here.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleo of course, had no idea a pup was in the offing. She continued to spend her days sleeping
inside and behaving in a very subdued manner.
I showered her with love, attention and treats, and so our days passed. The pups were born in early April and when
they were two weeks old, I chose Marlowe.
Their mum had had a litter of six with two boys and four girls. I chose Marlowe because he has a cute dot on
top of his head – the breeder informed me that it’s called a Monk’s Cap. She has kept me updated on Marlowe’s progress
and developing personality. Cleo and I
still have just over two weeks to go until Marlowe arrives home, but I mention
his name to her each day and tell her she’s going to love him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleo has always loved puppies. When Aslan arrived here at eight weeks old,
Cleo who was one year old at the time took him to her heart immediately. She followed him everywhere, and as I said in
my last blog entry, we had to provide Aslan with political asylum in the form
of a gate over the laundry doorway so he could escape Cleo’s attentions when
they got to be too much. Cleo and Aslan soon
became best friends and he was as devoted to Cleo as she was to him. One of my favourite photos of the pair is this
one. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAt6ilpbXl_jMtLIlArh0BRQ6lFxfOM9Nx1nv3LDvqu333AbQYFTy3ciiRLd7WFOk84Wn89Z5kZf-1hlWULuCXiov1GvdvWjDkc7LIyL_EtXFZjJ0Y9g0Utjv-8SFF8V3k5wtQxbAnAdKjuleWO0QjZSWmRTRgi6tW1AxeUbZACJWl7RorZFdi6l9i-w/s2048/100_2418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAt6ilpbXl_jMtLIlArh0BRQ6lFxfOM9Nx1nv3LDvqu333AbQYFTy3ciiRLd7WFOk84Wn89Z5kZf-1hlWULuCXiov1GvdvWjDkc7LIyL_EtXFZjJ0Y9g0Utjv-8SFF8V3k5wtQxbAnAdKjuleWO0QjZSWmRTRgi6tW1AxeUbZACJWl7RorZFdi6l9i-w/w400-h300/100_2418.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Cleo and Aslan</i></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My cousin visited a while back and brought her new puppy,
Max with her. Max had just left him mum
and was a bit uncertain about things until he met Cleo. She immediately took him under her wing and
mothered him for the duration of his visit.
Poor Aslan, who was an adult by this time, had to take a back seat for
Cleo’s attention while Max was around.
I’m sure Cleo remembered giving birth to Max by the time he’d been in
her company for a day. She followed him
everywhere, checked he was clean in all the delicate places and slept with him
at night. Max was perfectly happy with
this situation – he might be missing his mum, but he’d found another, much
larger mum to love him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The breakthrough with Cleo happened a couple of weeks ago
when my son Josh and his four daughters visited for a weekend. Cleo followed us around as we practised
archery, watching from the safety of behind the gate (all four girls and their
mum enjoy archer and have been teaching me the proper techniques), inspected
the garden or fed the chooks. It was
after we’d fed the chooks that I finally saw a happy Cleo again. Molly, my twelve year old granddaughter, had
just left the chook yard when Cleo came bounding over, performed that little
bow dogs make when they want to play, and challenged Molly to a race around the
house. Molly joined the game and I
almost cried. It was the first time Cleo
had wanted to play with anyone since losing Aslan. The game continued for a few laps of the
house and both Molly and Cleo returned with smiles on their faces. I just wish I’d had my phone with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since then Cleo has begun playing with us again. Her tail is wagging once more. She only occasionally checks the back of the
car to see if Aslan has returned. When
he doesn’t appear, she goes back to whatever she was doing. I’m sure the day we arrive home with Marlowe
Cleo will be ready to make a new best friend and will shower him with love and
attention. Marlowe has no idea what’s in
store for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymBFZQRjPkjpFfO4_nWZEOv762akikgsBCVXKWr7S9hUZ26nO8LaAo3bzvqw1qlUtpeXA_TWXnE6cc19ZrfppI7M8QWedIPtuOzxqftzQtJT5kDPtf2mhD7KZ90FnFwTkgTL6mh4Yd7eTCrANwgeZol9ebD6xgzPWqpEMr8YO8ZPlE0SG5xx_3LwltA/s1008/Resized_20220501_181227.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymBFZQRjPkjpFfO4_nWZEOv762akikgsBCVXKWr7S9hUZ26nO8LaAo3bzvqw1qlUtpeXA_TWXnE6cc19ZrfppI7M8QWedIPtuOzxqftzQtJT5kDPtf2mhD7KZ90FnFwTkgTL6mh4Yd7eTCrANwgeZol9ebD6xgzPWqpEMr8YO8ZPlE0SG5xx_3LwltA/w300-h400/Resized_20220501_181227.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Marlowe
aged three weeks.</i></span></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-3446116576936873962022-03-17T10:45:00.005+11:002022-03-17T10:46:05.611+11:00Aslan<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKDzsu4EzkjrilPKG72unaFBf2qUIIP0Edz24dFJ5BmtopWpkWgfnjbAJ6BnwF4lEd-zAQo7zzxugSe8Bo5i0BXauPy_qvhWGECH9qA_PM4GBLjbXzAyRGlZ5cRzTsqQBfOfhpCpplvi57TnTDeX_oEPxInLaRIX5XKVFMLYJGp1MfkermWvpFlRVU8w=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKDzsu4EzkjrilPKG72unaFBf2qUIIP0Edz24dFJ5BmtopWpkWgfnjbAJ6BnwF4lEd-zAQo7zzxugSe8Bo5i0BXauPy_qvhWGECH9qA_PM4GBLjbXzAyRGlZ5cRzTsqQBfOfhpCpplvi57TnTDeX_oEPxInLaRIX5XKVFMLYJGp1MfkermWvpFlRVU8w=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Last Wednesday my beautiful</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> Aslan</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> was</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <span lang="EN-GB">euthanized</span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">.
I was totally unprepared for this; I thought I was taking him to the
vets’ for antibiotics for an infection on his front leg. The vet diagnosed bone cancer in Aslan’s
front leg. With his wonky hips and
elbows, coupled with his huge size, amputation was not an option. The only thing I could do for my gorgeous boy
was end his suffering.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Aslan has always been a very stoic dog and determining if
he was in pain proved very difficult. As
a pup, he slightly favoured one leg. It
was almost so slight I could have ignored it, but felt the vet should check it
out. X-rays showed that Aslan had
dreadful hips and elbows, with his hipbones barely in the sockets. I was given daily medication for him and he
began to walk more normally and enjoy playing chasing with Cleo. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The vets’ was one of Aslan’s favourite places to be. He was always sure of an enthusiastic welcome
by the staff, and often, other clients.
The first time Aslan visited the vet was for his booster injections and
a general health check. Rose, the vet
who examined him, was instantly won over by the pup’s very laid-back approach
to life. By the end of the visit, she
had informed Aslan that he was her new, favourite patient. Aslan took this as his due and they remained
firm friends to the end. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Rose always took time to stop and say hello to Aslan even
when he wasn’t the patient. We took Cleo
to the vets’ once and Aslan came along for the ride and to keep Cleo
company. When Rose saw us in the waiting
room, waiting to pay our bill, she asked how Cleo was, then asked where Aslan
was. I told her he was in the car with
Graeme, waiting for Cleo to come back.
Rose said, “I’ll just go out and tell Aslan Cleo will be fine,” and with
that she headed for the car where, Graeme reported rather bemusedly, that Rose
did indeed tell Aslan all was well with Cleo before she and Aslan caught up as
old friends do. I was so glad Rose
wasn’t on duty the last time Aslan visited the vets’. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Aslan came into our lives when he was ten weeks old. I’d purchased him from a breeder in
Queensland via messages, photos and phone conversations. Cleo was an only dog at the time and she has
always been a very nervous, anxious personality. We hoped a young friend would make her feel
more secure. The breeder, a lovely lady,
preferred to hand deliver Aslan, rather than sending him down by air pet
carriers. I was relieved to hear this
because I too would worry about the pup being distressed on the journey. So Ann, the breeder, drove down from
Queensland and met us at her friend’s house in Goulburn. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My first site of Aslan was Ann coming out to meet us with
this little fluff ball following behind.
For me it was love at first sight.
Whenever Ann moved off somewhere she would say, “Follow the feet,” and
Aslan would be right there behind her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Aslan settled in beautifully at Spring Rock. Cleo took him to her heart the moment he
arrived. After a good sniff from head to
tail, Cleo decided this fluffy little scrap was hers, and Aslan who last saw
his mother a few days ago, was happy to be adopted. They were inseparable after that. Wherever Aslan was Cleo was right behind
making sure her pup didn’t get into any trouble.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">At
first things were a bit fraught with Graeme
Every morning Graeme would go outside, ready to start his farming day
and every morning, one of his shoes would be absent. I think it must have been Aslan, because it
didn’t happen before he arrived. Graeme
would voice his displeasure to the dogs and demand his shoe. I invariably came out to join the search,
after reminding Graeme that, a) the dogs didn’t speak English and had no idea
of what he was cross about and, b) they had most likely taken off with the shoe
long before he came out, so were not likely to link his anger with their deed. Eventually the shoe would be found – it was
rarely in the same place twice, making the hunt for the shoe a challenge. Thankfully, this game ended eventually and
Graeme’s shoes remained safe from light-fingered dogs after that.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIj805GnqSAxh4nDlCRHKNPeiZBrrAB-iEXm7_UqjYVVbzgqo6asQC3SDMnJOyTSIXoAKTFoEtRnj_Mtihn9x_YSJErBpNABsVCLg0388gzfjCcln3jzI_Qg_cz3y-EWLWM20lXVnglv8e9HorrMlKpkxIawH2zACkra8XbWMGcQ8dXuWAdUsOnzm0dQ=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIj805GnqSAxh4nDlCRHKNPeiZBrrAB-iEXm7_UqjYVVbzgqo6asQC3SDMnJOyTSIXoAKTFoEtRnj_Mtihn9x_YSJErBpNABsVCLg0388gzfjCcln3jzI_Qg_cz3y-EWLWM20lXVnglv8e9HorrMlKpkxIawH2zACkra8XbWMGcQ8dXuWAdUsOnzm0dQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Aslan and Cleo shortly after he arrived at Spring Rock</i></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: left;">Aslan’s
quiet, laid-back attitude to life never left him. He was always a calming influence with Cleo
who was just about the exact opposite.
When the unexpected happened, Cleo would react immediately, usually
barking at the new visitor or mob of kangaroos or echidna that turned up close
to Cleo’s home. Aslan would wander out
to see what the fuss was about, realise it wasn’t worth the effort of getting
excited about (I never discovered anything Aslan thought was worth getting
excited about), and stand near Cleo as moral support. Aslan excelled at moral support. Aslan’s huge presence usually quietened Cleo
and she was able to relax, unless it was Edna the Echidna visiting. In Cleo’s mind, Edna need constant barks to
remind her that this was Cleo’s home, not hers.
Aslan took his usual live and let live approach to Edna’s visits, but
remained behind Cleo in case she needed back up.</div></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrifmxBJ_6c9piaQzbGpM2J5GWNu_75cqr3xOYaoGkrGbOXzRZkAneSx0c-0F97btGaidz4T4yntYD_QnJ1oU6Fq7I-1O8b6pg73NMOqHdEB591ldgbDHrHCqYBs4Axa6J5Ti2fsHg4r897PhC8j99y4xe_BrrKm2rV2UgY-QEJDjs1YYIk19ve23QHg=s320" width="310" /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Aslan’s trips to the vets’ were one of his favourite ways
to spend a few hours.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">It started with a
ride in the car which he always loved and then being met by his adoring fans,
both old and new, and then finished with a ride home in the car.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">How could it get better than that?</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">The ride was preceded with getting Aslan in
the car, which was not one of Graeme’s favourite things.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">When Aslan was a pup, this wasn’t much of an
issue.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Graeme would usually pick Aslan
up, put him in the car and then stand back as Cleo made her attempts to join
Aslan.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">They usually travelled everywhere
together, even when only one of them was visiting the vet.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Assisting Cleo into the car wasn’t a big
problem because Cleo eagerly helped with the process.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">When Aslan grew too large to lift we tried
the Put Half The Dog In The The Other Half approach.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Aslan would stand with his front legs on the
tail gate and wait for Graeme to lift his back end in as well.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">He always turned his head to supervise Graeme’s
efforts, but offered no help at all, despite being keen to get in the car.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Getting Aslan into the car was clearly Graeme’s
job and Aslan would not mess with the order of things.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Once in the car, both puppies settled down to
enjoy themselves.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzWT-jmtbveCyZt4R7OYrKOUZmSNiZZsnZqz8Swr74BxiCr6nDeNhZPZ6yUrN_gJi_s5gOEG0DI3evlXOXS_pwx6kgqolx-12x1FIdNgYuk3qUrKuyD851jbXhbb8iyjSvUxSuKXB6cz6aUWWVAkriNOEqYQSVSZ23-wPKJaBHa-B4vTPx8gZE1w7Dbg=s960" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzWT-jmtbveCyZt4R7OYrKOUZmSNiZZsnZqz8Swr74BxiCr6nDeNhZPZ6yUrN_gJi_s5gOEG0DI3evlXOXS_pwx6kgqolx-12x1FIdNgYuk3qUrKuyD851jbXhbb8iyjSvUxSuKXB6cz6aUWWVAkriNOEqYQSVSZ23-wPKJaBHa-B4vTPx8gZE1w7Dbg=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Aslan receiving his vaccination certificate and making life long friends with Rose.</i><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">If it turned out to be a vet visit, so much the better. As I mentioned earlier, when Aslan was six months
old, we discovered he had bad hips and elbows.
We were also told Aslan’s knees were perfect, which wasn’t much
consolation. Aslan was put on anti-inflammatory/pain
killer tablets that relieved his hip and elbow pain and let him lead a normal
Saint Bernard mostly inactive life.
These tablets required six monthly blood and urine test to check his
body was coping with the medication.
Aslan was all for six monthly visits to his fan club. The only fly in the ointment was the scales
in the vets’ waiting room. Aslan
suspected them of nefarious purposes and did his best to avoid standing on
them, despite everyone’s effort to entice him onto the rubber pad. Mostly the vet would decide to estimate Aslan’s
weight rather than lift him onto the scales, but on one rare occasion Aslan was
on the scales long enough to record a weight of 78 kilos. This weight was recorded and used as a
guideline for most of the rest of his life. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Vet visits were always a social outing for Aslan and
Cleo. Aslan’s big fluffy appearance,
coupled with his quiet personality, attracted people like moths to a
flame. It wasn’t unusual for me to be
stopped multiple times on my trip from the car to the vets’ door by people who
just wanted to meet Aslan. On one
memorable occasion, a queue actually formed while the first person patted and
admired Aslan. Once inside Aslan was
greeted as a long lost friend by the staff.
The receptionist or vet nurse in the waiting room would then go out back
to tell everyone Aslan was here. Clients
in the waiting room often came up to talk to him and Aslan took all this as his
due. He accepted compliments and pats
with the air of a celebrity meeting with his fans.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Actually, come to think of it, there was a second fly in
Aslan’s ointment with vet visits. Aslan
was scared of little dogs. Anything
Kelpie size or larger was fine. If their
owner brought them over to say hello to Aslan he would wag his tail slowly, and
bump noses happily. If the dog was
smaller, especially the small, white, fluffy variety that seems to abound at
our vets’ practice, Aslan would get a look of panic on his face and try to hide
behind my legs. It was difficult to
convince small dog owners that my huge boy was scared of their little dog. They’d look at their dog and then look at
Aslan, trying his hardest to attain invisibility, and then look at me as if I
was mad. Eventually it would be proved
that Aslan was not comfortable meeting their small dog and the owner would
usually pat Aslan and tell him he was a funny boy or similar.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">With that unhappy event behind him, Aslan would then be
taken out the back by a vet or vet nurse for his tests. I’d hear all the welcoming hellos and cries
of delight that accompanied Aslan’s arrival out the back and then wait for his
triumphant return. The person returning
Aslan always had good things to say about his bravery when facing the needle
and his personality in general. Aslan
would nod in agreement with it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">At home Aslan would join in games with Cleo, if she
insisted, endure baths – not his favourite activity – and generally brighten
everyone’s day. There were a few
exceptions though, the most memorable was the time I fell and hit my head on
the concrete septic tank top. The
retractable hose knocked my feet from under me and I came down hard on the
tank. I called
Graeme for help, but he was down in the shed and couldn’t hear me. Cleo and Aslan, on the other hand,
could. Cleo came bounding around the
house to see what help she could give and Aslan followed at a much more sedate
pace. I couldn’t see Aslan very well,
because I had a face full of Cleo, but Aslan too was determined to be of
help. While Cleo kept me distracted,
Aslan turned chiropractor, put his great big paw straight down on my neck, and
proceeded to walk over the top of me, putting his not inconsiderable weight
behind that paw. I feel very lucky he didn't snap my neck - as soon as I
felt the paw on my neck alarm bells rang in my already ringing head. I
managed to grab his leg as he walked over me to reduce his weight, but a lot of
Aslan's weight (and there was a lot of Aslan's weight) managed to get through
anyway. After Aslan’s impromptu neck adjustment, he sat close next to me
and proceeded to share his drool. I
eventually managed to get myself up despite all the help Cleo was giving me and
Aslan was pleased that he’d done his mite and everything was right with our
world again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I could go on and on about the joy I had
sharing my life with this wonderful, gentle giant. He was always unflappable, kind hearted and
loving. Aslan brightened every day of my
life while he was in it. He also
brightened the day of those who met him, firstly when they were impressed by
his size and later when his lovely personality shone through.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Seven years was far too short a life for this
amazing puppy. I miss him every
day. Cleo is not coping well. She keeps looking for her best friend and
whining when he doesn’t show up. She
carries her squeaky toy with her everywhere, whether as a comfort, or in case
Aslan turns up and would like to play, I’m not sure but she never lets it out
of her sight. Cleo and I mourn our loss together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Thank you for sharing your beautiful, but far
too short, life with us Aslan. We miss
you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigIs62NxkHMc_9FN5v_2zZk6JpT7adj0ae5zg3trUkmMRar2Qmw3R3p2ni6k7Z7N0-LSs4wRXhRyoUbmRUN1B075JQ7ST-SdofKckF3V5H6HDmc35togDCSQk0Z2sw-AWPQuL9B2qazSFPrCjd_eYUpV-sDSTrqz_5NqTeNBy3zYk5dIZGl4uf5x25Qg=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigIs62NxkHMc_9FN5v_2zZk6JpT7adj0ae5zg3trUkmMRar2Qmw3R3p2ni6k7Z7N0-LSs4wRXhRyoUbmRUN1B075JQ7ST-SdofKckF3V5H6HDmc35togDCSQk0Z2sw-AWPQuL9B2qazSFPrCjd_eYUpV-sDSTrqz_5NqTeNBy3zYk5dIZGl4uf5x25Qg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></p></div><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-16213342965653529742021-12-28T13:06:00.001+11:002021-12-28T13:06:05.184+11:00It Must Be The Heat<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The weather here is beginning to heat up with temperatures in the high
30's (Celsius for those overseas readers). The Spring Rock menagerie
always seems to go a bit loony as the days warm up. This year has been no
exception.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Venus cannot settle. She is always on the wrong side of the door,
no matter how many times she goes in or out the back door. As her
personal doorman, I just wish she'd make up her mind. When she's outside,
she is tending to stick close to Cleo. Venus is absolutely besotted with
Cleo, and Cleo finds it very embarrassing. Recently, Venus has taken to
bringing little love tokens to her favourite Saint Bernard. The first one
was a dead mouse, which Venus proudly brought up the porch steps and deposited
between Cleo's front paws with a very smug expression on her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Venus has noticed that despite Cleo’s
enormous size, she’s not much of a hunter and clearly needs Venus’ offering of
tasty morsels. I had the privilege of witnessing this gift being
delivered. Venus stood in front of Cleo and waited for the thank you she
so obviously deserved. Cleo, just looked at the mouse, then turned her
head to look at me with a what-am-supposed-to-do-with-this look on her
face. I had no advice for her though.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Dead mice gifts to dogs I can cope with (even if Cleo can't), but Venus'
next offering was for me and I had to have words with her about it. When
Venus catches something and brings it to the back porch, meowing that special
meow cats have when they think they have been particularly clever, I always go
and check in case whatever the victim is, it may be something that can be
saved. This time it was still alive, but it was a baby brown snake!
I was barefoot and without any means of scooping it up and removing it without
danger to my person. Venus was sitting next to it, away from the head
end, and making sure it didn't escape. Thankfully, Graeme was outside and
was able to safely deal with the "gift". Venus was disgusted
that we didn't appreciate her present and has returned to showering love on the
ever-reluctant Cleo.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Hedwig and Hermes have their own snake problems in summer. The
brown snakes find their cage irresistible - either because of their
water trough, or to investigate mouse holes. Hedwig and Hermes screech their,
“IT'S-A-SNAKE!” screech and either Graeme or I go out to send the snake on its
way. The last snake to visit was made of sterner stuff than most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I donned my gumboots, grabbed the snake
deterrer and answered the galahs’ call for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found a very large brown snake actually
hunting the poor terrified birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
climbing up the sloping branch the galahs use as a perch and road to the aviary
floor, and the cage we keep in the aviary for bird transport emergencies, and
attempting to reach the galahs who were flapping around inside the aviary in
mad panic – they’d never actively been hunted by a snake before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I banged the outside of the aviary with our
snake deterrer (a large metal pole with a flattish end), but that just turned
the snake’s attention to me rather than the tasty galahs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He flattened his neck to threaten me, doing
his best cobra impersonation, but I too am made of stern stuff and I continued
to bang the outside of the cage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually the loud noise and vibrations gave the snake a headache and
he left the aviary and hopefully vowed never to return.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">There’s also been an interesting development in the chook
yard. George, who has just ended her longest ever broody session,
has decided that she must have had two very large chickens hatch when she
wasn’t looking. George took to the nesting box about two months ago
and sat firm well after the eggs I put under her should have hatched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I checked her progress every day and George
grumped that I was disturbing a very delicate process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About two weeks after the eggs should have
hatched, I removed them and gave George a short lecture on knowing when to give
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>George ignored my advice and
continued to sit on her now empty nest for a few more days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she finally emerged, she found two very
large chickens scratching around the chook yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To George it was obvious what had happened -
two of her eggs had hatched while she wasn’t looking and the result was before
her eyes, scratching around the yard in the care of Emu, our other Silky hen (who
just happened to be the hen who actually hatched out those two chickens).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">George is very proud of how quickly her chickens grew, but she’s
treating them like newly hatched, baby chickens. She is finding
tasty treats for them and calls them over to eat them, she won’t let Cookie and
Monster (the two chickens in question) out of her sight and fusses over them
non-stop, clucking away in that special cluck mother hens use when talking to
their chickens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cookie and Monster are a
Faverolle, Hamburg cross, which means they will grow into quite large
hens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are already taller than
George, but she knows they are just overgrown babies and need her careful
guidance to grow big and healthy. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnMry3Blj678dKzW8bTr7totdie0mgabZbmivohNGh3hOcT8LCgWkTc1gIgnkxzQCdlab92gT-Qacr4AQnBGbl1mIlhhvdrzaYRG4o0jCKx01iWSFXCIGgB6PHQzZP0KRpWWcHnciI9dO6sviHxrTCok7V7oLnrFAMT8MPBDkzyusWfaekr_e3tvpcew=s576" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="576" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnMry3Blj678dKzW8bTr7totdie0mgabZbmivohNGh3hOcT8LCgWkTc1gIgnkxzQCdlab92gT-Qacr4AQnBGbl1mIlhhvdrzaYRG4o0jCKx01iWSFXCIGgB6PHQzZP0KRpWWcHnciI9dO6sviHxrTCok7V7oLnrFAMT8MPBDkzyusWfaekr_e3tvpcew=w400-h294" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">George with her two World Record sized newly hatched chickens with Opportunity (the rooster)</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Emu is fine with this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think
she feels she has put enough effort into raising Cookie and Monster and is now entitled
to a rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has handed over full chicken
raising responsibility to George, and is once again living the single, carefree
life, without so much as a backward glance towards her chickens.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">I’m not sure what Cookie and Monster think, but they aren’t knocking
back the offer of tasty treats from the slightly deranged Silky with the over
the top, fluffy fringe. I think the two chickens are getting close
to the age where mother hens send them out into the world on their own.
Cookie and Monster don't seem to need to know where Emu is any more and seem
content (or resigned) to being stalked by George, but then they are being
nagged into submission by the deranged Silky, so maybe they are just trying to
keep a low profile so George doesn't put them in time out.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFnZ4LgApZz7uRo6ANEXSTM01Xcvu56ZkWZqye6M-BnVU2fKaJ4Ed0nUfJIjtSUPDXUFv50uTG9WMD5ED7A-IaNTdrnFZx4JsNaK4B9Oc4-PKsCMbJR46clSYFzvLPFyrQUTlVEvBXaJbMcs1rQ9zYwp-4NW9RQ_8jiYmxdaRQiJwWGkuTcFnwLrWvMg=s576" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFnZ4LgApZz7uRo6ANEXSTM01Xcvu56ZkWZqye6M-BnVU2fKaJ4Ed0nUfJIjtSUPDXUFv50uTG9WMD5ED7A-IaNTdrnFZx4JsNaK4B9Oc4-PKsCMbJR46clSYFzvLPFyrQUTlVEvBXaJbMcs1rQ9zYwp-4NW9RQ_8jiYmxdaRQiJwWGkuTcFnwLrWvMg=s320" width="240" /></a></div></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;">Emu enjoying the single life again.</div></span>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-19522992239537083922021-10-05T11:38:00.006+11:002021-10-10T08:59:05.256+11:00The Vet Visit En-masse. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">We took the puppies and Tristan to the vets' today. Graeme is
still reeling from the bill. Late last week I noticed an ugly growth on
Cleo's side. It was nestled under her winter coat and I wasn't sure how
long she'd had it, so felt the best course of action was a visit to the
vet. Aslan was overdue for his blood and urine tests. He is
supposed to be tested every twelve months, but with Covid making life difficult
for everyone, I've let this slip for a while. Aslan is the picture of health,
so I wasn't worried. Tristan, who is 19 next month, has recently been
having seizures. They have been spaced out over months, and he recovers
reasonably quickly after an episode, but I worry. Therefore, an
appointment was made for all three members of the menagerie to visit the
vet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">The morning began with me following Aslan around the garden with a honey
bucket in hand ready to catch his first dribbles of urine. I thought it
best to arrive at the vets’ with the sample, rather than have them try to get
one once we arrived. I knew from experience that while Aslan is all for
socialising with all his fans at the vets’ he is rather shy when it comes to
producing samples. The last time we tried, a vet nurse and I walked Aslan
all over the grounds, the vet nurse pointing out favourite toilet spots for
other dogs to Aslan while I tried to get him thinking about flowing streams and
waterfalls. Aslan did not co-operate and I had to acquire a sample and
bring it back to the vets’ at a later date. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Aslan was not impressed to be accompanied on his early morning toilet
break and kept stopping, looking at me as I dived for his nether regions with
the little bucket, thinking better of it and moving to a new spot in my very
large garden. Each time he would give me a look that clearly said,
"Can I have a little privacy here please?" Eventually we
manage to sync the sample collecting process with an actual sample production
and I returned to the house triumphant, little bucket carried ahead of me like
a trophy - it doesn't take a lot to make me happy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">The next hurdle to get over was getting the puppies into the car.
Tristan was remarkably easy to pop into the cat carrier. I relied on
stealth and a dozing cat's slower reflexes and picked Tristan up and popped him
through the very large top opening of the carrier and job done. The
puppies were another matter. While both are always eager to get into the
car, neither possess the required athletic ability to actually jump up and
in. Cleo's system is to put her chin on the tail gate and give Graeme a
sidelong look with a clear "A little help here would be appreciated."
message attached. It's a relatively simple matter for Graeme to then put
Cleo's front paws on the tailgate (why she never thinks of this herself I don't
know - the chin on the tailgate method so obviously doesn't work) and then lift
her back end. Aslan, who feels that even
resting his chin on the tailgate is too much help for Graeme, stands away from
the tailgate and looks at Graeme hopefully.
After many aborted attempts and a lot of harsh words about tubs of lard
and how useless they are, Graeme calls for my help. Aslan, realising the big guns have arrived,
puts his front paws on the tailgate as soon as I pat it invitingly and then
it’s no small matter of Graeme lifting the rest of Aslan’s bulk into the back
of the car. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Neither of the two vets who regularly deal with Aslan and his wonky
joints was working yesterday, but our vet practice is blessed with many lovely,
knowledgeable vets so I wasn't concerned. With Covid rules in place, we
arrived at the vets' car park and I rang the office to say we were here.
The receptionist asked what car we were in and I told her. Graeme said I
should just have mentioned the two big dogs whose heads were now sticking out
from the back window. While we waited, two young girls came over and
asked if they could pat the dogs. Cleo was already trying to introduce
herself to these two new, potential friends before they even reached the car,
and of course I said they were welcome to pat the puppies. After
following my instructions to let the puppies smell the back of their hands
first (the universal way of a dog getting to know you), both girls dived right
in and were soon as covered in Saint Bernard hair and drool as Graeme and I were
- it's spring and they are shedding like there'll never be another
winter. The two new puppy fans stayed with us for quite a while, patting
the puppies and asking questions. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Two vets duly arrived to deal with our mass booking and while Clay
concentrated on Aslan, Jen turned her attentions to Cleo. Tristan made
small, complaining noises from his cat carrier on the back seat and was
promised attention as soon as the puppies were finished. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> While Cleo was being treated in the car park, Clay took Aslan
inside to take the blood sample and considering the time he was gone, allow all
Aslan’s veterinary staff fan club to greet him and have a chat with the big
fluffy fellow. Clay also took the opportunity to weigh Aslan. This
takes great skill. Aslan has never been in favour of revealing his true
weight and usually approaches the scales in such a manner as to give whoever
holds his lead a false sense of security, and then veers off at the last
minute. Last time he was weighed I tricked him into it, walking on the
scales myself and quickly hopping off as Aslan followed. He weighed in at
75kgs last time, and John, Aslan’s personal vet, said that that was an
appropriate weight for such a large dog. I’m afraid John would have been
shocked at the tally yesterday, and doubt he would have risen to Aslan’s
defence this time. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">When Clay returned with Aslan, he asked me if I had any idea how much he
weighed. I replied that no, I didn’t, but I was sure it would be an
embarrassing number. Clay nodded solemnly and told me Aslan broke the vet
practice's record for fatness - he weighs 104kg! Clay told me
they have never had a dog reach triple figures before. Apart from his
tubbiness, Aslan is doing well. The blood and urine tests were all clear,
so he can keep taking his medication for his wonky joints. Short, slow
walks are now going to feature heavily in Aslan’s future. We will be
going on these short, slow walks until Aslan manages to shift a lot of that
extra weight. I am working on the premise that he should weigh around
75kg, so he is basically 30kg overweight. He doesn't get much exercise
because his hips and elbows are problematic, but Aslan does enjoy a walk when I
take him. I've been leaving him home because I can't walk as far as I
want to with Aslan along, he just can't manage long walks, so from now on the
walks will be for Aslan's benefit, not mine. Cleo will just have to suck
it up and accept her long walks around the farm are over for a while.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Cleo’s consultation revealed she has five hotspots on her neck and chest;
most of them were hidden by her winter coat. She also has a yeast
infection in her ears, so antibiotics for the hot spots and drops for the
ears. The growth, which was the original reason we took this lot to the
vets', is most likely just a cyst, an ugly red/black cyst, but not a
problem. When Cleo goes back for another ear swab to check the infection
has cleared up Jen will check the growth again next week, to make sure it’s not
growing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Finally, it was Tristan’s turn. Jen moved around to the side of
the car, after asking all sorts of questions related to an elderly gentleman
cat. She was pleased with most of the answers I gave and worried that the
seizures might be related to kidney or liver problems. Tristan was taken
into the surgery for blood and urine tests and a general physical. I
warned Jen that Tristan now feels that old age comes with privileges, one of
which is he is entitled to be irascible, growling and sometimes even swiping at
a well meaning victim. Tristan gave Jan
his most angelic look, implying it was all hurtful lies aimed at a defenceless
old man. Jen thanked me and told me she always liked to be warned
beforehand. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Tristan, determined to get even for being stuffed into a cat carrier and
driven miles away from home, behaved like a perfect gentleman. He won Jan
over in a very short space of time and a friendship was born. He even had blood tests without complaining
(at home he growls if you so much as look like you are going to move him off
his comfy heat pad), but because his bladder was tiny when Jen palpated it, she
decided not to try and get a sample. Jen gave him a thorough checking
over and told me he was in remarkably good health for such an elderly
cat. Jen attributed this to my taking excellent care of him. Tristan
insists it’s all down to the, active, adventurous life he led in his younger
day, which toughened him up, and his daily mushed egg in his later years which
is the highlight of his sedentary day these days. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">I was given a very interesting little pack of pseudo kitty litter and
told if, when the blood tests come back, they weren't good, I will need to lock
Tristan in a room for a while with the litter box filled with this
litter. It is non-absorbent and I will be able to fill a pipette with
Tristan’s urine, for quick delivery to the vets’. I’m hoping the blood
tests all come back with good news, for more than one reason. I feel I
have had far too much to do with my pets urine output over the last few days
and would be happy not to have to revisit sample collections for a while.
Tristan now is also on some wonder medication for arthritis. Jen says it
is amazing stuff and really makes a difference to old joints. She said it
isn't available for humans yet sadly, although elderly owners of elderly pets
have asked hopefully if it is safe for human consumption. As I said
earlier, Jen complimented me on getting Tristan to one month off 19 years old and
still purring, and in such good condition. Really I haven't done much -
apart from getting him a heated pad for winter and preparing that mushed egg
for him each day, it's all Tristan's doing. I do call out the ages of
very old cats when I come across one on the internet, and encourage Tristan to
aim for that age - maybe it helps. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">So, all pets are now confirmed to be either in good health, or are being
treated for whatever aliment yesterday’s marathon vet visit revealed. I
just hope Graeme survives the vet bill. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgMcmnpJYxhU4lE4kNWHYKACtxxJsNPp4irbeBAGyFWSiJ_r1iBsQVRpkwk4TrmvjzHrv3nvDReAJsUT3TawfjlIvYq5bIc2ALNUVtvlqGoBZrLBo65zVwx-6K7ndgHLigseHkY1twJbh/s2048/20200607_114703.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgMcmnpJYxhU4lE4kNWHYKACtxxJsNPp4irbeBAGyFWSiJ_r1iBsQVRpkwk4TrmvjzHrv3nvDReAJsUT3TawfjlIvYq5bIc2ALNUVtvlqGoBZrLBo65zVwx-6K7ndgHLigseHkY1twJbh/w300-h400/20200607_114703.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Tristan enjoying his heat pad.</i></span></span></div><p></p><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-10066161624079253192021-08-22T16:39:00.012+10:002021-08-22T17:00:21.051+10:00Speedy Run Fast<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZWDQrCjHPQnrwhgkW9C5saf3N8ucjC5yStt3T5Fp6nyckoSU8aMGF0CWO18-tfQ5vuWkn9GErSREJCx8qFSRCO_IXunPuVm-twKMf5C-pfkTQ-ZlB4nQqaCBLV5qZlRfbNttFVvUr0sU/s2048/20210822_162219.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZWDQrCjHPQnrwhgkW9C5saf3N8ucjC5yStt3T5Fp6nyckoSU8aMGF0CWO18-tfQ5vuWkn9GErSREJCx8qFSRCO_IXunPuVm-twKMf5C-pfkTQ-ZlB4nQqaCBLV5qZlRfbNttFVvUr0sU/w300-h400/20210822_162219.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Speedy Run Fast looking for her rooster</i></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif">Speedy Run Fast came from
the only egg Emu, my Chinese Silky hen, hatched earlier this year.</span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif">Her egg mother is a Faverolle and her
father is one of three candidates (either of the two Hamburg roosters or
Phoenix, my recently departed rooster).</span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif">Chinese Silkies seem to spend more time being
broody, whether they have eggs to sit on or not, so they usually get to be mums
while the Faverolles and Sussex girls, who tend to go broody only once a
season, miss out.</span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif">I’d put six eggs under
Emu and checked every day that she still had six eggs to incubate.</span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif">Three eggs disappeared during the incubation
period – we have bearded dragons and blue tongue lizards on the farm, both of
which I believe visit the chook yard and steal eggs (it’s that or I’m feeding a
lot of freeloaders in the chook yard), and l the last two eggs didn’t hatch before
Emu gave them up as a bad lot and concentrated her efforts on raising her one
little chicken.</span></span></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">As the chicken grew and
grew, Emu seemed very proud of her giant daughter, and took very good care of
her, despite the fact that said daughter towered over her mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Speedy stuck close to mum and thrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my grandson Elliott visited shortly
after Speedy was born, I asked him what we should call the chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him I thought it was a girl, but I
could be wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elliott decided the
chicken needed to be caught so he could have a good look at it (and a cuddle)
to see what name suited it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elliott then
proceeded to chase Speedy and Emu around the yard yelling, “I just want to hold
you so I can think of a good name!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Neither Emu nor Speedy felt this was a good enough reason to allow
themselves to be caught and in the end Elliott decided that as she was <u>that
</u>fast, Speedy Run Fast was the best name for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also commented that if she slowed down as
she grew up we could then call her Slow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am happy to report that Speedy still earns her name and doesn’t need
to be renamed Slow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">Lately Speedy is turning
into a personality. I ask myself if I need another personality in the
chook yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heavens knows I already have
a number of chooks with peculiar foibles, like the Faverolle hen who sits on
her bottom with her feet out in front of her, and Bunny, the ancient Easter
Egger hen who is the smallest in the yard but the boss of everyone, but,
whether I need another personality or not, Speedy is definitely developing
quirks. She began to show an independent spirit a few months back when I
thought I’d lost her one afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
searched everywhere and thought she must have managed to get out of the chook
yard somehow and how was I going to tell Elliott Speedy was gone!?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was about this time, when I was panicking,
that I heard a soft clucking noise coming from way above my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked up and found Speedy sitting about 3
metres up in the pine tree, for all the world looking like she was trying to
impersonate a parrot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had stern words
with Speedy about the dangers of being so high up when her flying skills were
practically non-existent, and how much safer she’d be if she slept with her mum
and Aunty George.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Speedy ignored me and
continued to sleep high up in the pine tree every night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days she’d come down on the wrong side
of the fence, but still in the chook yard thankfully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d fuss and bother, trying to get back in
with the Silkies, until I’d discover her and put her back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">When Elliott visited next,
I tattled on Speedy, telling him what a naughty chook Speedy was with her
dangerous sleeping quarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elliott
marched right up to the chook yard, found Speedy mooching around the Silkies’
yard looking for tasty worms or whatever, and proceeded to wag his finger at
her and tell her she was to stop sleeping in the tree and be a good hen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe it or not, Speedy has never slept in
the tree since!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell you Elliott has
super powers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Speedy decided that if the
tree branch was off limits, the lintel at the top of the gatepost to the
Silkies’ yard was her new, preferred sleeping location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was fine with this because there was no
chance of her coming down outside the chook yard and into the wilds of the
farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told Elliott what a great job
he’d done convincing Speedy to stop sleeping in the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elliott just gave a dignified little nod as
if to say, “Well what did you expect?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peace
reigned for a few weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">Recently, Speedy has
begun to lay eggs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shortly after this
momentous occasion, she decided that she’d outgrown the Silkies and moved
herself out to the main chook yard with the big girls, where she spends her
days flirting with one of the Hamburg roosters. She has a favourite, the
smaller of the two boys, and she and the rooster spend their days at the
far end of the chook yard together away from the general chook population.
I've pointed out to Speedy, that from her colouring and speckles, there's a 33%
chance this rooster is her father and a 33% chance he's her uncle (the other
33% chance is she's Phoenix's daughter), but Speedy doesn't care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Speedy believes it to be true love and turns
a deaf ear to all I have to say about falling in love with close relatives.
I've decided that we'll just declare her to be Phoenix's daughter and any
future matings between Speedy and the Hamburg rooster (I suppose I really
should name the two boys) will be OK.</span></p><p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggvzCquRpeGtbPaiQJHmBjYjYuh8moZIUsSjNBEEPKoa_gqt6e-3uByo72ubD3wpKgY5KCAl5cCTvwrGHYCv7i6SEj2NJyUoDnejxeNf9zS6pRuJGmpls0Z1KB7iBosvbtA23kJexZ1aep/s2048/20210822_162240.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggvzCquRpeGtbPaiQJHmBjYjYuh8moZIUsSjNBEEPKoa_gqt6e-3uByo72ubD3wpKgY5KCAl5cCTvwrGHYCv7i6SEj2NJyUoDnejxeNf9zS6pRuJGmpls0Z1KB7iBosvbtA23kJexZ1aep/w300-h400/20210822_162240.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial;"><i>Speedy and her rooster</i></span></div><p></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">Speedy's other quirk
causes me no end of end-of-the-day exercise. Although she is now one of
the big girls and lives in the big girls' yard, Speedy continues to prefer to
sleep in her usual spot on the gatepost lintel between the Silkies’ yard and
the main yard, where she moved to after the dreaded sleeping in the pine tree
episode. The problem is that to get to the top of the gatepost Speedy
used to flap/climb onto the top of the nesting box and then flap/climb onto the
gatepost. On the big girls' side, there is no convenient box nearby for
her to use as a starting point. No matter how many awkward attempts she
has at flapping and trying to get her very rotund body off the ground, Speedy
can't manage to get to the top of the gate. Now, when I put the chooks
away each night, there is an added step before I can go inside for the
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gather the feathery population,
do my headcount - it goes something like 3 (Sussex), 2 (Faverolle hens),1
(D’Artagnan), 2 (Hamburg roosters) ,4 (drakes), 1 Bunny (the Easter Egger) and
1 (Speedy), remembering to include that extra one count for Speedy, close the
main chook yard gate, round Speedy up, and place her on top of the
gatepost. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">Rounding Speedy up is not
an easy job, despite the fact that I've been rounding her up each day for a
while now, and gently putting her on the gatepost lintel, Speedy is sure that
this time I'm up to no good and any wise chook would run for her life! Elliott
got it right when he named Speedy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite her tubby appearance, she is very nimble on her feet. When
she runs for her life, she puts her all into it. The other chooks and
roosters realise that there is extreme danger nearby and set up crowing and
squawking in sympathy with Speedy, but thankfully that’s as far as their
support goes for the chook in deadly peril. I'm just grateful that her
friend the rooster doesn't have a gallant bone in his body, and stays right
where he is, out of the danger zone. Phoenix would have come charging to
Speedy's defence, talons first and questions later, at the first squawk she
made.</span></p>
<p><span face=""Helvetica","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;">I eventually manage to
catch her and gently lift her to her preferred sleeping spot. Speedy then
quiets down, but strangely, before she settles down she does a thorough
inspection of the bar, making soft, concerned clucking sounds while the
inspection takes place (to make sure I haven't laid any landmines I suppose).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once she's assured herself that she is safe, Speedy
finally settles down for the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once
that's accomplished, I can go inside for the night and swear I won't be so
helpful the next time - I always am though.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-72671766172740821942021-07-11T10:09:00.001+10:002021-07-11T10:09:10.737+10:00Vale Phoenix<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnZ4WMsl0c4w-YfjFHimjdsJszZbU-zUaKj-2OidiEPEScPHQtp4scHkoNuhf7TDLeYIGlaFXxOIsjHXrmIF6mVV70NwHcAUUq9rdydnMRj1b5yMqmWCeQCiMCxoda4I6IIK-skwH0jKS/s2048/20210501_125903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnZ4WMsl0c4w-YfjFHimjdsJszZbU-zUaKj-2OidiEPEScPHQtp4scHkoNuhf7TDLeYIGlaFXxOIsjHXrmIF6mVV70NwHcAUUq9rdydnMRj1b5yMqmWCeQCiMCxoda4I6IIK-skwH0jKS/w300-h400/20210501_125903.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Phoenix in his younger days<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">My gorgeous rooster, Phoenix, died on Friday. He was a very old
rooster and had started slowing down dramatically over the past few
weeks. Phoenix appears to have died in his sleep peacefully after
spending the night snuggled up to George (short for Georgina). Phoenix was the
only rooster I’ve ever owned who came when I called him. I miss him dreadfully.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Phoenix came to live amongst the Spring Rock menagerie many years
ago. He was hand raised from an egg by my daughter in law's mother,
Casey, and little sister, Ivy, and brother, Jasper. Phoenix was always
just a little bit to big for his boots. When he was put out into Casey's
back yard to live with the resident chooks and roosters, Phoenix saw his
opportunity to be top dog (or top rooster I suppose it more apt). He
began lording it over the rest of the chooks and roosters and even turned on
his human family, not allowing the children into the back yard to play.
Phoenix challenged everyone who tried to access his kingdom (the aforementioned
back yard). By and large, Phoenix managed to intimidate all comers, with
the exception of my son Justin. Justin had been raised with feisty
roosters and knew the trick was to take no guff, firmly putting Phoenix in his
place when challenged. Ivy and Jasper tried to standing up the fluffy
tyrant, but caved each time Phoenix ran in their direction.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The day finally came when the children wanted their yard back.
Phoenix had to go. Despite his bad behaviour, Ivy and Jasper still loved Phoenix
and wanted him to go to a good home. The first name that came to mind
when thinking of a good home for a badly behaved rooster was Rosemary. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was asked if I could provide the good home
and of course said yes. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Phoenix arrived
in a cardboard box, with his loving family who were all eager to see where
Phoenix was going to live. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Phoenix was
let loose in the chook yard and immediately set about introducing himself to
the ladies, without so much as a backward glance to say goodbye to those dedicated
people who raised him. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Casey and the
children could see Phoenix would be happy with his new harem and returned home,
sad to say goodbye to Phoenix, but happy to have their back yard back.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The first time Graeme and I entered the chook yard after Phoenix's
installation, Phoenix tried his domination tactics.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Graeme was the first to meet with the fluffy
ball of outrage.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Phoenix came at Graeme
talons first with order to leave his domain. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Graeme simply batted Phoenix away, using the
flat top of his shoe to send Phoenix a short distance from his legs. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Phoenix found himself too far away from
Graeme's shins to do any damage and charged back into the lists. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Once again, Graeme fended him off and Phoenix
began to suspect he may have met his match. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I doubt Phoenix would have been surprised if
he'd been told that Graeme was closely related to Justin, the only other human
he couldn't terrify. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then it was my turn
when I came down to collect the eggs. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">After one abject failure to cower the human
male member of Spring Rock, Phoenix doubled his efforts to show the human
female he was a force with which to be reckoned. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I used the same technique that Graeme had
found so successful and Phoenix soon accepted the fact that our presence had to
be tolerated in the chook yard.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One thing that Phoenix found in the chook yard that couldn’t be
tolerated was Eros, our resident black rooster.
<span style="background: white;">Shortly after P</span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">hoenix entered the chook yard, he decided that it
would be a better world with less black roosters in it. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Phoenix decided that changes needed to
be made and needed to be made now! He
immediately turned his attention to ridding the chook yard of the excess black
rooster. W</span><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">ith
this thought in mind, Phoenix immediately tried to put an end to Eros. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Eros was a rooster of<span style="background: white;"> peace and</span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> refused
to fight back, but he usually ended up cornered somewhere with Phoenix beating
the daylights out of him. The only
solution was for Graeme to build an inner yard in the chook pen and Phoenix was
forced to reluctantly retire from the lists and take up residence in his new
bachelor's quarters. Eros once again
reigned supreme in the chook yard and Phoenix, while not exactly enjoying
living in the bachelor quarters was happy enough. He was able to chat to the hens through the
wire and even share his treats with them when I dished out the scraps each
afternoon.</span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-vY6s25w9EIKdYVccWeFUBraYQ6pY5Rm1zC045Mqqa4GcRmvhSdaLHkxlYOHFam7-mOGWPK4RCXl1tDWvFmfNlTd-dvAjsyQK7bX564FqMJiNhopn-rJga03ArUie_i56J57Q0E0n2GV/s2048/Eros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-vY6s25w9EIKdYVccWeFUBraYQ6pY5Rm1zC045Mqqa4GcRmvhSdaLHkxlYOHFam7-mOGWPK4RCXl1tDWvFmfNlTd-dvAjsyQK7bX564FqMJiNhopn-rJga03ArUie_i56J57Q0E0n2GV/w400-h300/Eros.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Eros, our rooster of peace.</span></i><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><o:p>Life settled down in the chook yard, but I soon felt sorry for Phoenix living a solitary life. I tried putting a couple of hens in with him so he had female company, but Phoenix suffered with a Jekyll and Hyde syndrome when living with hens. Alone in his bachelor quarters, Phoenix was a gentle, affectionate rooster who enjoyed daily visits from me, where he sat on my lap and enjoyed wattle and comb rubs. This would put him in a state of bliss and he always ran up to me with his little welcome dance before I lifted him onto my lap. When living with even one hen, Phoenix reverted to the Mr Hyde part of his character and became aggressive towards any human who entered his yard.</o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Phoenix was doomed to live a solitary life, doing
his best to entice the hens over to chat with him through the wire. He pretended to find tasty treats and made
little noises of encouragement to lure gullible hens over to the wire. This worked for a while, but eventually the
hens recognised a scam when they saw one and Phoenix only managed to rally the
hens to his boundary when I arrived with scraps or treats. Then he would generously share whatever
bounty came his way. Eventually I
decided to let Phoenix out with the rest of the chooks each afternoon so he
could socialise and forage. At first
Phoenix’s first stop was to bash up Eros, but after a few interventions by me,
where Phoenix was immediately put back into the bachelor quarters, Phoenix
learned to ignore Eros’ existence and focus on the hens.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sadly, his “come and see what tasty morsel I’ve
found” no longer worked with the girls, they’d been tricked once too often, so
Phoenix had to find a new hen catching strategy. He accomplished this by the simple expedient
of finding a hen or two who had strayed from the flock and herding them to a
remote part of the garden where they could all forage far away from any large
black roosters that might exist somewhere else in the yard. This strategy proved to be a full time job,
because the hens naturally wanted to </span>re-join<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> the main flock, but Phoenix
maintained vigilance and kept the girls he managed to corner with him for the
whole afternoon. This meant he got
little else done, including romancing the girls, but Phoenix was happy.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When it was time to round everyone up to lock up
for the night, I’d call Phoenix before the herding began. Phoenix would come running towards me, do his
little dance then wait for me to pick him up.
I needed to keep him with me because I’d found that during the chook
muster, Phoenix would place himself at the gate to the chook yard and not allow
Eros to enter. Eros would arrive at the
gate, see the obnoxious red fellow in residence and think of some task outside
the chook yard he had yet to complete, wandering off to accomplish this very
important (if imaginary) task. With
Phoenix comfortable nestled in my arms the rest of the feathery population
would be easily persuaded to return to their yard. Phoenix chivvied the slow ones from the
comfort of my arms and once again, all chooks and ducks would be safely locked
up for the night. Phoenix would be returned to the bachelor quarters, and if I had time, would get his wattles and
comb massaged while we chatted about our days.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As winter approached this year, I began to worry
about Phoenix being alone in the cold weather.
I tried swapping Phoenix and D’artagnan (our Faverolle rooster who came
to live with us after Eros succumbed to old age), putting D’artagnan (another
rooster of peace Phoenix usually bullied at every opportunity) in the bachelor
quarters and Phoenix with the girls.
D’artagnan didn’t like this arrangement and nearly damaged himself
trying to get back with his girls.
Phoenix, who miraculously had adjusted his attitude to excess roosters,
was content to share the yard and sleeping quarters with D’artagnan, so peace
reigned supreme in the chook yard during autumn and winter. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As the days passed, I worried that Phoenix, while
not objecting to D’artagnan’s existence any more, wasn’t completely happy with
the new arrangement. Having a young,
virile rooster in your face in the twilight of your years couldn’t be
wonderful. I hardened my heart to the
Shut Ins (George and Emu, my two Silkies who’d had more than enough of roosters
and lived in a cloistered yard – yet another inclusion in the chook yard –
rooster free) and installed Phoenix in there with them. George, ever the gentle, quiet girl she is,
allowed Phoenix to snuggle up to her on cold nights in the nesting box and thus
Phoenix whiled away the last days of his life.
We continued our wattle and comb massaging sessions, right up until Phoenix
final day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Rounding up the hens each night is now a lonely occupation
without Phoenix to help. He brought a lot
of happiness into my life as we sat together, me massaging his wattles and comb,
Phoenix listening drowsily to my chatter about how beautiful he was. Phoenix
will be greatly missed for a long time to come.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p></div><div><p></p></div>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-20731192645923065292021-06-26T16:20:00.002+10:002021-06-26T16:22:15.673+10:00The Arrival Of The Header<p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Arrival of the Header<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz66m5Mguxa5YxJXNg6DQTJ4CqiVM7ouyIHVwdTSODcrEYd_Qtk6WVYMFDyPf9PuvTOrydXpoJOsZu8XEnPQtKzJkXX4YSC263ipSc_BzH29Pby-kXpb6gzA99VnHlvnOVp7XCdqMvPlBp/s2048/20210624_135109.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz66m5Mguxa5YxJXNg6DQTJ4CqiVM7ouyIHVwdTSODcrEYd_Qtk6WVYMFDyPf9PuvTOrydXpoJOsZu8XEnPQtKzJkXX4YSC263ipSc_BzH29Pby-kXpb6gzA99VnHlvnOVp7XCdqMvPlBp/w300-h400/20210624_135109.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">There's not an animal in sight with this latest episode of happenings at Spring Rock.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Well!</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> It's been all fun and games here lately. A</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">fter the long wait for the header to get here, it arrived, wrapped in high drama.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Last year’s harvest was encumbered with many header
breakdowns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graeme would just get back
into the swing of things, harvest-wise, and something would break, crack or just plain refuse
to work on the header.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has served us
well for many years, and the truth of the matter is, that the poor header is
just old and well and truly entering its troublesome years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a good harvest behind us, the decision was
made to find a newer, second hand header with all the special bits and pieces
Graeme wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took some time to
track down the perfect header, but once it was found and our header budget,
drastically increased, Graeme agreed to buy it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was a long wait between the agreeing and the actual buying, all to
do with the header’s present owner’s (who was trading it in on the latest
model) wish to keep hold of it until he actually had his new header on his
property – a very wise move that ensured he still had a header if something
went wrong with the arrival of the new one arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The day finally arrived and the header was available for
us to buy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting an invoice to pay for
it from the dealers was surprisingly difficult; I suppose they were just busy
trying to sell all their other trade-ins, but the invoice was finally emailed
the day before the header was due to arrive here and we could now pay the
invoice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least we thought we
could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, on Monday the bank made
paying for the header very difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Poor Graeme had to make more than half a dozen calls, with each one
timing out while the person on the other end went off to find the answers to
Graeme’s problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the bank app
told Graeme that there hadn’t been any activity for a while, so it was shutting
down the session, Graeme had to ring back each time, explain his problem all
over again only to have that person put him on hold while he/she went to find
the answer and of course, it timed out again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Graeme, despite the obvious frustrations of this little exercise,
managed to stay calm and polite to each person to whom he spoke, but I did
think I saw a bit of steam coming out his ears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Once that was finally sorted and the payment for the
header was made all we had to do, was sit back and wait for the header to
arrive on Tuesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, that didn’t go
according to plan either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tuesday
arrived bright and shiny, with blue skies and dry roadways (the importance of
which will become clear later on).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
salesman rang to say the truck was having difficulties (unspecified) and hadn’t
arrived at the dealership as yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
was around lunchtime and there wasn’t enough time left in the day for the truck
to drive the long trek to get the header here during daylight, so they were
rescheduling for Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wednesday’s weather forecast was for rain, followed by
more rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our 2km roadway from farm’s
our front gate to our machinery shed is not a pretty sight after a bit of rain
after a lot of rain it’s even worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Navigating the sloshy bits and the deep puddle bits is not for the faint
hearted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day started with 40mm of
rain (which our crops greatly appreciated) and rain just kept on coming all
morning, only varying between showering and pouring down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The header left on its long trek at 9.30am
and we crossed our fingers and hoped for the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graeme advised the salesman not to bring the
truck on to our lane, but to offload the header on the main road (tar) and
drive it along the lane (dirt) and then on through our gate and ultimately to
the machinery shed where a nice, new spot was waiting for the header to settle
down until harvest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The salesman, who arrived with the header to teach Graeme
how to use all the high tech stuff, and truck driver took this good advice and
all looked hopeful for a successful delivery of one header.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when the fun and high jinks
began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The salesman drove the header
along the lane and, with a false sense of security, continued through the
gateway and on to our farm roadway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Having never before seen what Spring Rock laughingly calls a roadway,
the salesman seems to have lost all confidence and decided not to follow the
soggy tyre ruts but to straddle them and choose the ground less waterlogged –
big mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The higher parts of the
roadway did not have a firm base, made from decades of cars and machinery
compacting to ground, underneath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
header slipped sideways and into the newly erected boundary fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Graeme, who had driven our four-wheel drive out to meet
the salesman (well really he drove out to greet the header, but we’ll say he
went to meet the salesman), managed to bog our car a short distance along our
roadway from the stuck header.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t
present for the discussions that took place with two stuck vehicles (can you
call a header a vehicle?), but the upshot was that the salesman opted to forgo
the header tutorial for another day, walk back up the lane to meet the truck
there and drive back to his dealership, leaving Graeme with the stuck
aforementioned vehicles to sort out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
salesman did say he’d wait a few days to bring the header comb down here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had intended to bring it Thursday, but he
wasn’t going to brave our roadway again until it had a chance to dry out a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfrH52b7n1LuG5wPVnbAo12PHYCFpqn582UC9WcdbulBhaQ6BWpgd0Iu62AO66DqBYKywgm9FXbipOI2dkN45_onvIy8x147xAS9ULKvybglOBzs7p_FcynGgJTZkiSYPfxshBM0YLCce/s2048/20210624_134959.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfrH52b7n1LuG5wPVnbAo12PHYCFpqn582UC9WcdbulBhaQ6BWpgd0Iu62AO66DqBYKywgm9FXbipOI2dkN45_onvIy8x147xAS9ULKvybglOBzs7p_FcynGgJTZkiSYPfxshBM0YLCce/w300-h400/20210624_134959.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Graeme walked back to the house, collected me and the
tractor and we drove out to free the car from its ignoble position, stuck deep
in the mud.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">I busied myself taking
photos of the stuck header and the bogged four-wheel drive to share with Ethan,
our farmer type grandchild.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">With the
tractor doing all the heavy work, and me behind the wheel just steering the car
as the tractor pulled it out, the car was soon out of the bog and trying to
look like the whole embarrassing incident never happened.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Graeme decided to drive the car back to the
house (for which I was truly grateful), finish his interrupted lunch and have a
well-earned cup of tea before tackling the header issue.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">To remove the header, Graeme had to dismantle our new boundary
fence and drive the header out through the opening, then put the fence back
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The header wasn’t bogged, it
just didn’t seem to want to do anything but snuggle up to the fence, no matter
how many attempts were made to steer it in the other direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One silver lining to this whole dark cloud
incident is that our neighbours decided to plant the paddock on the other side
of this fence to crops this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s
run stock in that paddock for a number of years now and if Graeme had to drop
the fence with sheep or horses in there, the unsticking the header process
could have been a lot more fraught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully,
the header behaved once Graeme was in the driver’s seat and it was a simple
matter of driving it out of the problem area and onto the roadway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All Graeme had to do then was put the fence
back together, drive the header down to the machinery shed, get me to drive him
back for the bike and then back again for the tractor and we could put this
whole distasteful episode behind us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The header is now ensconced in the machinery shed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully it has now got all its bad
behaviour out of its system and will now become a model member of the Spring
Rock community who no longer wants to get up close and personal to fences.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-54703119813353333262021-05-28T14:44:00.000+10:002021-05-28T14:44:15.404+10:00Learning At The Paws of a Master<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWEW3Iatf8MvdXtzb1qZ6mvKS_fj3hQrfNIYVKPof-d2Kk-5se71ECLersI9JDo5sxfvWaNu-ouXJzwkTnceH6OZFF1CW3l2wx6OlBnPZSJVA7zhVh5gtigjs2IE9uUi3oAzvgFKiJeX2/s1018/MumPuss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="1018" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWEW3Iatf8MvdXtzb1qZ6mvKS_fj3hQrfNIYVKPof-d2Kk-5se71ECLersI9JDo5sxfvWaNu-ouXJzwkTnceH6OZFF1CW3l2wx6OlBnPZSJVA7zhVh5gtigjs2IE9uUi3oAzvgFKiJeX2/w400-h286/MumPuss.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><i style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Mum-Puss Keeping her one good eye out for any mice.</span></i><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This story is from
the archives, written in 2006. Now, in 2021, the mouse plague in full swing on Spring
Rock, with mice in the paddocks, mice in my garden, in the chook yard and aviary,
mice in the house’s roof cavity, mice everywhere! I was thinking that if Mum Puss had been alive
today, she would have seen to it that the mouse plague ended a lot sooner. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">*****************************************</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Mum-Puss doesn’t care
that I’ve done my time at University, gained a First Class Honours Degree and
gone on to a successful teaching career, even earning the promotion of
Assistant Principal and beginning my PhD. before I was injured and medically
retired. She considers all those
achievements as useless, cerebral stuff not worth the lifting of a furry
eyebrow. Nor has she shown respect for
my years as a mother, raising three children who have all gone on to lead
responsible, independent, and happy lives. Mum-Puss argues that I’ve failed miserably in
my parenting duties in one crucial area and she’s going to address this gap in
my education even if it kills one of us!<br />
<br />
For the past couple of months Mum-Puss, our one-eyed mother cat we acquired
with the farm (or as Mum-Puss prefers to see it – bought her for a world record
price paid for a cat and got the farm thrown in), has been gallantly fighting a
losing battle to teach the dullest student she’s ever encountered to provide
for herself and her family. Who is this
dullard - a new intellectually challenged kitten? her seven-year-old, thick as a brick son,
Lancelot? No, it turns out that I am the
dumbest student Mum-Puss has ever encountered!
<br />
<br />
Mum-Puss is getting on in years now and realises if her new family of humans is
to survive after she’s gone, there’s only one thing she can do to ensure our
survival – teach the matriarch of the humans, that dolt Rosemary, to hunt and
catch her own food. Oh yes, Mum-Puss has
heard rumours of my being a vegetarian, but she doesn’t believe that anything
that’s grown as large as I have could possibly turn her nose up at a good,
fresh mouse.<br />
<br />
Mum-Puss began her lessons like all good teachers. She arrived at the back door, meowing that
special meow that cats use when boasting about a particularly good catch. I went to the back door dreading what I’d
find. Mum-Puss sat at the bottom of the
steps with her catch lying dead at her feet, looked steadily at me with her one
bright eye (according to her previous owners, Mum-Puss went out one night with
two eyes and returned the next day with just one), and suggested that I come
and have a taste. I, not unreasonably to
my way of thinking, declined her generous offer, scooped the corpse up with a
garden trowel, and deposited it in a shallow, anonymous grave in the herb
garden. Behind me, Mum-Puss gazed at my
small, but respectful funeral service in disbelief, meowed once more, this time
a “washing my hands of this imbecile” meow and stalked off with her tail in the
air - the picture of an insulted benefactor.<br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">All was quiet on the
mouse front for a week or so. Then, one
afternoon while I was sewing away without a care in the world, I heard That
Meow again, not the “washing my hands” meow - the “come out and share this
wonderful treat I’ve caught just for you” meow.
I trudged to the back door and, sure enough, there sat my feline
survival coach with another mouse at her feet and a look in her eye that dared
me to even think about interring this fine specimen in my ever-growing mouse
cemetery. One look in that determined
eye and I quailed. I didn’t want a fight
on my hands or to permanently loose Mum-Puss’ respect, so I took the coward’s
way out. “Puss, puss, puss!” I called, aimed not at Mum-Puss but at
Lancelot and Guinevere, her two kittens who have overstayed their welcome by
more than seven years now (Mum Puss's opinion not mine - I love them). Lancelot, who believes the only good mouse is
a mouse inside his tummy, came hurtling down the yard, skidded around Mum-Puss,
dodging a swat of her paw as he went, scooped up the defunct mouse and
disappeared the way he came all in the blink of an eye.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppyyTFqz9JNhgepK159BIDSOEE0SSCHn-7E4flQCb_zftpIWGoO9CqAIGlZaHIIDQbJhNDh8xAAmHTo2hQGEOk3PEGMcbB0U63nFHvtoCO6VhkYsoc0_6Qt_hkUxLEqUEJsg38emMtlA4/s1107/MumPuss+Lancelot+and+Guinevere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="1107" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppyyTFqz9JNhgepK159BIDSOEE0SSCHn-7E4flQCb_zftpIWGoO9CqAIGlZaHIIDQbJhNDh8xAAmHTo2hQGEOk3PEGMcbB0U63nFHvtoCO6VhkYsoc0_6Qt_hkUxLEqUEJsg38emMtlA4/w400-h258/MumPuss+Lancelot+and+Guinevere.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mum-Puss, Lancelot and Guinevere taking a break from mousing.</i></div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
Mum-Puss just sat there looking at me with a sad, almost hopeless look on her
face. Here she just may have met her
match, she was thinking. Never in all
her years of training kittens to be self sufficient had she come across one so
thick! True, she thought that Lancelot
had been a challenge to teach the fine art of mousing; Lancelot isn’t the
sharpest pencil in the box (Hell! let’s call a spade a spade – he’s the dumbest
cat I’ve ever met). He believes he can catch birds by forcing his way though glass, by continually throwing his body at it, and is surprised every time his head makes contact with a solid object. You can’t get much dumber than that now, can
you? I could see Mum-Puss’s little brain
working overtime. She reviewed her
teaching methods and decided that “hands on” was the next method to try. She wasted no time in putting her new system
into practice, returning the very next afternoon with a mouse still alive, but
with all the fight taken out of it. Mum-Puss
sat in her usual teaching position, using the bottom step as her lectern, and
gently batted the poor little furry offering in my direction.<br />
<br />
My first reaction just caused Mum-Puss more anguish. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that I’m
not frightened of mice, rats or anything with less than eight legs, but the
poor little mouse, still being alive startled me. I took emotional refuge in yesterday’s
successful manoeuvre and once again called the “kittens”. Lancelot once again performed his “now you
see me now you don’t, and you don’t see the mouse anymore either” act of
yesterday and peace was restored to my world.
I couldn’t look Mum-Puss in the eye.
She left me in no doubt that I was the slowest, most troublesome student
it had ever been her lot to educate, before once again stalking off, mumbling
about the need for more funding for remedial classes for the hopelessly slow
mouser students.<br />
<br />
I returned to my sewing room with relief, hoping against hope that Mum-Puss
would abandon all ideas of instructing me in the fine art of mouse catching. As it turned out it was a futile hope. Mum-Puss is clearly a never-say-die cat. She’d taught litter after litter, including the utterly backward Lancelot, how to catch their daily meal just in case the humans forgot to feed
them one day (as if they’d allow that to happen!) and if she could teach
Lancelot to become a more than competent mouser, surely this poor excuse for a
human huntress could be whipped into shape eventually.<br />
<br />
With these admirable sentiments in mind Mum-Puss began an intensive teaching
program by bringing a mouse to her brick lectern each day and calling me to
class. All these mice were alive to some
extent or another. I attended class each
day dreading what I might find. I
couldn’t ignore her call for two reasons, one the mouse might be suffering and
need Lancelot’s immediate attention, and two I still had to live with Mum-Puss
in her non-teaching hours and I didn’t want to get well and truly on her wrong
side. It was bad enough that she thought
me mentally deficient – I didn’t want her to think me insolent as well. She just might remember that this is her
house after all and kick me out.<br />
<br />
I adopted two different tactics to deal with the mouse situation. If it was relatively unhurt, I gently picked
it up, examined it for wounds and let it go out in the paddock. If it was too far-gone I called Lancelot. You may have noticed that while I answered
Mum-Puss’ call neither of her kittens came when they heard it. This is because they knew that if they
sabotaged Mum-Puss’ lesson by stealing her teaching aids she’d exact quick and
painful revenge, but all bets were off once I’d invited them to class. The first time I picked up the mouse Mum-Puss
gave a little cheer of a meow, “Now we’re getting somewhere!” she thought. “This is more like it. I knew no-one could be that dumb and still
walking around.” When I set it free on
the other side of the fence, Mum-Puss gasped with disbelief. Who had ever heard of letting a nice juicy
mouse being set free!? Mum-Puss
considered the appalling action she’d just witnessed and came to the conclusion
that I hadn’t really meant to let it go.
Obviously I had taken it away from her to try my clumsy hand at catching
it for myself and had stupidly put it over the fence with me on the wrong side. Mum-Puss gave me points for trying and
stepped up her teaching program. She
refused to give in. She’d teach me to
catch mice or die in the attempt.<br />
<br />
Just when she was beginning to wonder if the second of these options was the more likely outcome of her quest to turn me into an efficient family provider, Billy
the St. Bernard, came to live with us. Mum-Puss’
bottom step lectern became a favourite haunt of this oversized dog and it was
absolutely useless for her to try to teach from there anymore. Sitting outside and calling me to class
wasn’t going to work either, because Billy was only too happy to join the class
and change the syllabus to teaching me how to catch cats instead.<br />
<br />
Mum-Puss has now retired from the education profession. She’s biding her time. One day I’ll come to my senses and beg her to
teach me to catch mice. On that day
she’ll generously agree on the condition that Billy goes – she doesn’t care
where, just so long as he’s gone. Then
maybe, I’ll pay more attention to her instructions, do my homework and pass all
my exams. Until that time Mum-Puss is in
retirement and can be found lying in front of the heater or in a warm sunny
spot in the sewing room consoling herself that she’s only had one abject
failure in her whole teaching career - and when you think about it that’s a
pretty good achievement.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; mso-background-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwZjWC5ejXC-j2vYSMC-wSkxbR_RFDC3MeqbBex9jEcCdBBTDkcCF-gx_Lf3wjRZoHQfWwYpU4QCdJ3mDMSXV7RKTG3g5x1XIDEGnyYs0Ax66DcLSIk3Lf6abt6YPjGfdm25Pk-RhcRf_/s2032/The+Gang+of+Three+a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1524" data-original-width="2032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwZjWC5ejXC-j2vYSMC-wSkxbR_RFDC3MeqbBex9jEcCdBBTDkcCF-gx_Lf3wjRZoHQfWwYpU4QCdJ3mDMSXV7RKTG3g5x1XIDEGnyYs0Ax66DcLSIk3Lf6abt6YPjGfdm25Pk-RhcRf_/w400-h300/The+Gang+of+Three+a.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; mso-background-themecolor: background1;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">"</span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">The Kittens" Guinevere & Lancelot with Tristan thrown in because he was in this photo. Tristan never met Mum Puss he arrived about a year after Mum Puss went to that big mouse hunting field in the sky.</i></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-30384647321766211002021-04-19T09:20:00.000+10:002021-04-19T09:20:27.955+10:00An Update On Venus<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx0huWi5exYKDVEVjjNHk_ioFqz6Ov2tEsCsK1rMAZozEplLE0nvKZfEVBHRDi1hX6sTQF58tnapPeZLhC_wx4h9Dg0CWnAHnaa-WkMaiEojxl_mG8XlYGXCmBfdbAnzD2-K6LsHeb8wGC/s2048/20191219_160057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx0huWi5exYKDVEVjjNHk_ioFqz6Ov2tEsCsK1rMAZozEplLE0nvKZfEVBHRDi1hX6sTQF58tnapPeZLhC_wx4h9Dg0CWnAHnaa-WkMaiEojxl_mG8XlYGXCmBfdbAnzD2-K6LsHeb8wGC/w400-h225/20191219_160057.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Last time we met Venus she was settling in to
domesticated life as a member of the Spring Rock menagerie.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">She continues to enjoy the life of a
domesticated cat, but the domestication is just a thin veneer I’m afraid.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I imagine there will always be a feral puss,
lurking beneath the surface.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Venus is happy to while away some of her time in the
house with us and chooses most nights to come inside late at night and sleep
with Tristan, Ambrosia and Nefertiti in the bathroom; this is despite the fact
that Nefertiti constantly puts Venus in her place by snagging whichever of the
two beds she thinks Venus will prefer that night. When Venus first moved into the house, The
Gang of Three (Tristan, Ambrosia and Nefertiti) wouldn’t allow her to sleep on
their very spacious, faux fur covered bed in the bathroom. I made Venus a bed out of a purple furry
throw and a pet mat so she had somewhere to sleep. It’s much more Spartan than the plush bed The
Gang of Three share because our bathroom just isn’t large enough for another
fully padded bed, but it wasn’t long before Nefertiti had decided that if Venus
was happy with the purple bed it must be better than her fur bed. She soon moved in and wouldn’t let Venus
on. Nefertiti will allow Ambrosia to
share the purple bed if she’s in a good mood, and divides her time between the
large bed and the purple bed. Tristan
has risen above all this musical bed business, somewhat literally, and slept on
the windowsill during the warmer weather – now that the nights are cooler he’s
moved back to the fur bed and ignores anyone who tries to turf him off. Venus, ever the pragmatist, sleeps on
whichever bed is vacant or shares with Ambrosia if Nefertiti and Ambrosia
decide to spend the night one on each bed.
Ambrosia isn’t exactly welcoming but she doesn’t actually hurl insults
at Venus – Nefertiti, who looks like a sweet, gentle cat never loses an
opportunity to use the worst cat language I’ve ever heard when face to face
with poor Venus. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGuZhRtdQh-uDTx6NBFZPQZFlZh1I2FePD3Iq6l4j2H_LsPV4hGckUYZYZKGEhxDG5R_UGY-Vm7XVnXSB4JFnQL6AToPPinHAknwE5-0IjHQLkb2paLwFGYI_laX8tHUaU9rqJioCjztIl/s2048/20191219_101804.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGuZhRtdQh-uDTx6NBFZPQZFlZh1I2FePD3Iq6l4j2H_LsPV4hGckUYZYZKGEhxDG5R_UGY-Vm7XVnXSB4JFnQL6AToPPinHAknwE5-0IjHQLkb2paLwFGYI_laX8tHUaU9rqJioCjztIl/w400-h225/20191219_101804.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">On the nights Venus decides not to come inside, no matter
how many times I call her, she ends up sleeping in the laundry with the
puppies. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cleo and Aslan are much more
welcoming, if somewhat embarrassed about being good friends with a cat.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Venus particularly loves Cleo.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">How this came about I’m not sure.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The first time Cleo and Venus met, Venus was
still mostly feral and coming into season.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">She lived on the front porch at this stage in a seething mass of annoyed
hormones.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was out there patting her
and telling her of my long-term goals to have her friendly enough to become a
domesticated cat and Venus was listening quietly and soaking up the pats.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cleo came bounding around the side of the
house, saw a new cat she hadn’t introduced herself to yet, and proceeded to do
so.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Venus took one look at the huge nose
approaching her and hauled back with her right paw, claws fully extended, and
told Cleo she did not like dogs and she particularly didn’t like very large,
drooly dogs as she took a swipe at Cleo’s nose.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cleo backed down the steps as quickly as she could, backed down the path
and around the side of the house, never taking her eyes off the new cat with
the sharp paws.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p></span><span>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I thought that would be that as far as Venus and the dogs
finding an amicable living arrangement, but after her visit to the vets’ Venus
became a much more peace-loving cat. We
soon set off on our two-week trip to Central Australia, leaving Venus living on
the front porch (complete with comfy bed and sufficient food to last a couple
of months). When we returned, Venus came
to greet us and then headed off to rub herself along Cleo’s legs. Cleo had a look of panic on her face and was
definitely trying to tell us to please, please save her! I got the idea that this wasn’t Venus’ first
efforts to befriend Cleo so left her to make amends for her previous bad
behaviour. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><v:shape alt="Venus Tummy 2020.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_2" o:spid="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 283.5pt; margin-left: 262.5pt; margin-top: 118.65pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 213pt; z-index: -1;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-152 0 -152 21486 21600 21486 21600 0 -152 0">
<v:imagedata o:title="Venus Tummy 2020" src="file:///C:\Users\rosem\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg">
<w:wrap type="tight">
</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleo
has now settled in to a friendly relationship with Venus. Venus was late turning up this morning. She chose to sleep outside last night, and
when she's out and about after we've gone to bed, she usually spends the night
snuggled up against Cleo in the laundry. Cleo is her dog. This
morning I went out to the back porch and called Venus, with no tortoiseshell
cat appearing. The second time I tried calling her Cleo pitched in to
help. She picked up her newest squeaky toy and, with tail wagging, went
looking for Venus. If Cleo finds Venus when I call for the cat, Cleo will
bring Venus back to me - Cleo leading the way and Venus following. Cleo
didn't find Venus this morning and came back empty-handed and tail drooping,
but with her squeaky toy still held firmly in her mouth. I then turned to
go inside again, beginning to worry where Venus was, when I found her, sitting
on the kitchen floor on the other side of the screen door. She was
clearly wondering what puss, puss, puss I was calling. Cleo came up to
the door to say hello as well and Venus just assumed a superior air and walked
away after rubbing noses with Cleo through the screen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We struggled with Venus’ weight for months. When I say we, I of course mean I have
struggled – Venus is quite happy to be a very rotund cat. Venus found free food too tempting to pass
up, wherever it was and to whomever it belongs.
She’d sit at the bowl of cat food and just keep eating until I removed
her and closed the door to stop her returning to the bowl. She ate the dog food when she was outside,
along with a variety of wildlife, despite the bell on her collar. By the end of winter, Venus’ weight had
ballooned up to alarming proportions. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x6HzLfYvaFIR7aiU64t_lP7XNf6F8uH3bJPDQD1T1awlD5lUk0BTaJGzgIjRvsI9oe9B4d1N_WhdN2dCe4hF7N-9TkthtpfbE5BxPTlA3nPi5Rn9oIO8WqQXW9UxGTkx9tUxEGZKN0_h/s2048/Venus+Tummy+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1537" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x6HzLfYvaFIR7aiU64t_lP7XNf6F8uH3bJPDQD1T1awlD5lUk0BTaJGzgIjRvsI9oe9B4d1N_WhdN2dCe4hF7N-9TkthtpfbE5BxPTlA3nPi5Rn9oIO8WqQXW9UxGTkx9tUxEGZKN0_h/w300-h400/Venus+Tummy+2020.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can’t keep Venus inside as I do the other cats because
Venus simply refuses to use the litter tray.
She’ll go to the toilet behind a chair or some other very private spot
if I don’t let her out in time. Her
preference is the garden, but if she’s desperate, Venus will make her own
arrangements inside. Needless to say,
this makes Graeme and me super aware of when Venus asks to go outside. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thankfully, when summer arrived, Venus put herself on a
weight reduction diet. I really wish I
knew her secret! She has gone from a
grossly overweight feline to a very svelte young lady in the matter of a few
months. When one of our cats lost weight
when I was a child, my Nana always said that the cat was eating lizards. I don’t know if this is true or not, but I do
hope Venus isn’t catching poor defenceless lizards in her quest for a better
figure. I have noticed as we move into
autumn, that Venus is now beginning to put on a bit of weight again. I have a dreadful feeling we’ll have a very
fat winter cat and a trim and terrific summer cat as the years go on. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I wrote earlier, Venus’ domestication is just a thin
veneer. When there is just Graeme and me
at home, Venus’ behaviour is very much like the other three cats’
behaviour. She’s a bit more standoffish
than Tristan, Ambrosia and Nefertiti, but she’s happy to lie on her back with
maximum tummy exposed to the air cooler or heater depending on the
weather. She occasionally honours me by
settling in on my lap and going to sleep, but mostly she prefers to have her
personal space respected. Venus is
always happy to receive a pat or scratch behind the ear from me though, and she
adores Graeme – choosing to sit on his chair as soon as he vacates it and
looking very offended when he puts her on the floor on his return. Her feral nature comes to the fore whenever
we have visitors. If she is inside when
they arrive, she shoots out the back door as soon as she can, looking
terrified. She then doesn’t reappear
until she thinks the strangers are gone.
If she has miscalculated, and the visitors are still present Venus will
keep a very low profile under the dining table or demand to be put outside
again. I’ve tried to explain that no-one
will hurt her, but Venus just isn’t comfortable with anyone but Graeme and me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the one occasion she visited the vet, to be spayed, I
had to stress and restress that, although Venus looked the picture of a gentle,
calm cat, she was still basically a feral cat for anyone she doesn’t know. Venus sat in her carrier looking very chilled
out and insisting it was all a lie. When
I picked her up after her surgery, the vet nurse told me that Venus had
remained a quiet, calm cat until they did something she didn’t like, like
getting her out of the carrier or anything else they needed to do. Then Venus showed her feral side with a
vengeance and she soon lost all the friends she’d made by looking calm and
beautiful in her carrier. Thankfully, no
mortal injuries were dealt, but Venus left everyone who came in contact with
her in no doubt that she didn’t like them, didn’t like their surgery, and
didn’t like humanity in general.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Venus continues to refuse to use the litter box, despite
being a house cat for eighteen months now.
Because she has to be put outside when she indicates she wants out, she
now blackmails us. Her favourite way of
telling us is to jump up amongst my very delicate ceramic owl collection and
wander back and forth causing the owls to make little clinking sounds. She is promptly told to, “Get down!” and does
so begrudgingly, but is confident that either Graeme or I will now open the
back door for her. With her tail in the
air, and a triumphant look on her face, Venus regally escorts us to the back
door and leaves the house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One problem we have is that Venus is one of those cats
that firmly believe that the other side of the door is the best place to
be. She no sooner goes out than she’s
back at the door asking to come inside.
Once in it’s not long before she wants out again. Her personal record was the day she came
inside, did a U turn and went outside again before I’d even had a chance to
close the door. I feel that I spend my
days as an unpaid doorman, opening and closing it multiple times a day just to
allow one rather spoiled, ex-feral cat to come and go as she chooses. Venus is happy to believe that this is just
how it should be.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape alt="Venus Tummy 2020.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 259pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 194.5pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
<v:imagedata o:title="Venus Tummy 2020" src="file:///C:\Users\rosem\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image003.jpg">
</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now that the days are getting cooler, Venus is taking
full advantage of her domestication and spending more time inside. She is happy to nab Tristan’s heated bed
before our elderly gentleman can get there first. Venus settles down with her back to the room
and does her best it ignore Tristan’s affronted look. While Tristan is usually happy to share his
bed with Ambrosia or Nefertiti, Venus is built on a much larger scale and takes
up the entire bed. The fact that she
stretches out to her full length to expose as much of her as she can to the warmth,
doesn’t help at all. I intervene and put
Venus on a quilt or the furry bed at the top of their scratching post and with
a resigned sigh, Venus settles down to the second best spot in the lounge room. Tristan makes a show of hurt feelings and not
wanting to sleep on the bed now, but the warmth soon calls to his old bones and
he settles happily on the bed to sleep the day away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The cool nights are also working on the bond between the Gang
of Three and Venus. Snuggling up to the
larger cat at night is much more comfortable than letting Venus have the whole
fur bed to herself. Venus is more than
happy to mend fences and welcome any of the Gang of Three who wants to snuggle
and conserve warmth. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfQYYFnOxy1FUQqglt1MCovTDG_Y28q0BWOQEiE8aTQjHLGqMn9E_paimt9GKFP2lNcnjwgHnpg8HR7IaNiyRg_c7mvCOFPUXAUgnmiEYs7Xsh8eYgivyE3XZtJ7fP0-rlt3otBf1t_fd/s2048/20191027_095825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfQYYFnOxy1FUQqglt1MCovTDG_Y28q0BWOQEiE8aTQjHLGqMn9E_paimt9GKFP2lNcnjwgHnpg8HR7IaNiyRg_c7mvCOFPUXAUgnmiEYs7Xsh8eYgivyE3XZtJ7fP0-rlt3otBf1t_fd/w225-h400/20191027_095825.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p></span><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-31477577777467635792020-12-12T10:06:00.000+11:002020-12-12T10:06:00.207+11:00The Sad Tale Of The Abscess<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Warning - this post is not for the faint hearted or those delicate
tummies. Blood, gore and general medical talk are contained herein.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Cleo has been creating fun and hijinks lately. Last Sunday, when
Rebecca made a lightning fast visit to pick up one son and drop off another to
help us with harvest she had to run the usual gamut of members of the menagerie
greeting her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cleo bounded up with her
usual </span><span style="background: #F8F9FA; color: #202124; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">joie de vie</span> to say hello and<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"> Bec greeted her in
her normal manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bec is a neck
scruffer of dogs so she was first to discover the lump. I pat my puppies
on the head or scratch them behind the ears, I rarely express my love by
scruffing under their chins, and that's my excuse for not noticing the lump,
along with the acres of excess skin Saint Bernards keep under their jaws. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Bec came into the house, said hello to us all then asked if I was aware
that Cleo had a massive lump under her jaw. I immediately went outside to
check and, to say the size of the lump under Cleo's jaw was huge, barely covers
the description. I couldn't get two hands around it. It was also
obvious that it had grown to these massive proportions in a matter of a few
days. I'd bathed the puppies two weeks ago and if there'd been the
slightest hint of a lump, I would have noticed it. The puppies have been
enjoying inside time under the air cooler ducts and wear a bib for the
occasion - a bib I personally put around their necks, so again I would
have noticed a lump. This didn't stop me imagining the worst and worrying
it was a tumour. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Monday morning I rang our vets and was told they were booked out all
week, but I could have an emergency appointment if I could bring Cleo in
an leave her for the day to be seen as soon as someone had the time. I
was concerned that Cleo would need to be euthanized and didn't want that to
happen without me being with her so I made an appointment for the next
week. On Wednesday, Cleo upped the ante.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The lump proved to be the biggest abscess I've ever seen and began to
ooze disgusting stuff. Cleo had chosen for some reason to sleep out on
the concrete driveway on Tuesday night and when the abscess burst, it created a
huge mess all over the concrete. The entire area looked like a crime
scene with blood and gore from one side of the driveway to the other – the only
thing missing was the police tape. Despite this horrible sight, Cleo's
abscess was still an impressive sight. I rang the vets' and told them the
non-urgent lump had developed into an urgent one and may I bring her in this
morning to be seen when they had time please? The receptionist told me to
bring her in by 8.45am, which was only just doable considering the distance we
live from the vets' surgery. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Graeme is still harvesting, and as I've mentioned before, I am unable to
drive any more due to a back injury. Luckily (from Cleo's and my
perspective, definitely not from Graeme's) the header and broken down on the
weekend and needed repairing (we'd driven three and half hours on Monday to get
the part needed) and we'd had rain which meant the wheat couldn't be harvested
until it dried out considerably which meant that Graeme was happy to drive Cleo
to the vets'. Graeme prepared the car for a canine passenger. This
involves putting a protective covering over the cargo area of the car to
protect the car’s interior from drool. Graeme has never learned to shut
the puppies up while he's doing this and as soon as they see the cover go in,
they try their hardest to get into the back of the car. Neither are
athletic so all attempts fail, but their attempts always annoy Graeme who is
worried they'll scratch the paintwork in their abortive attempts to get into
the car, ready for their car ride. Thankfully, Cleo wasn't in the mood even
to attempt to get in the car and Aslan was soon dispatched to the
laundry. Cleo then needed to be lifted bodily into the back by first
placing her front feet on the tailgate and then Graeme hefting her backend up
to join the front paws. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Once at the vets’ I was lucky to for Cleo to be seen straight away and
surgery was recommended. I left Cleo with the vet and went home to wait
for the phone call to come pick her up. Later in the afternoon Graeme suggested,
we take Aslan with us to pick up Cleo because Aslan was sad that he'd
missed out in the morning and he'd missed Cleo all day. Venus, the
ex-feral cat, also missed Cleo while she was away, but taking her with us
wasn't suggested. Once Cleo was ready to come home, we loaded an
unusually enthusiastic Aslan into the car. I told Venus, the ex-feral
cat, her dog would be coming home soon and left her looking wistfully at the
last dog in the yard to leave her.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">I hadn't realised that Cleo was the social glue that held the backyard
menagerie together until she was gone for the day. Aslan sulked in the
laundry and didn't want to talk to anyone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Venus moped around and tried to befriend Aslan
instead, but as I said, Aslan was sulking and ignored any pussycat overtures of
friendship. We took Aslan with us to pick Cleo up and he was over the
moon when he saw her wobbling her way towards the car (she was still dopey from
the anaesthetic). When she was lifted into the back of the car (with lots
of interested patients' owners looking on and laughing), Aslan tried to welcome
Cleo back to the fold. Cleo wasn't interested and just wanted to go back
to sleep so Aslan, ever the pragmatist, settled down to sleep next to her.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Once we arrived home and got Cleo out of the car (no easy feat with a drowsy
puppy wobbling everywhere) Aslan again tried to welcome Cleo home. Cleo
just tried to weave her way to the water dish, but Venus had rushed over to
greet her as well. There were a few harrowing moments when cat and
puppy's legs looked about to tangle, but Cleo managed to keep her precarious
balance while Venus decided the welcome home could wait a few seconds.
Once Cleo was drinking from the water container Venus went to town with her
welcome. She rubbed against all Cleo's legs, one after the other, stood
under Cleo's jaw so she could reach part of Cleo's face to rub against in
welcome (not the best idea with the drainage tube doing its job) and finally,
Venus followed Cleo to the laundry. This looked something like a
triumphal march because, with Cleo leading the way, Venus following close
behind and Aslan bringing up the rear, a parade scene was definitely brought to
mind, even if the leader of the parade looked decidedly tipsy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">The vet had told me to take the tube out on Monday. Cleo and Aslan
had other ideas about that and Friday morning Cleo greeted me at the back door
sans drainage tube. I had a closer look and she had the tiniest bit still
in place held down by the stitches. I think she got Aslan to chew the
tube off on Thursday night, although neither was admitting to anything. By
now, Graeme was once again harvesting so he was less than impressed with the
possibility of another trip to Wagga. When I rang to tell him the bad
news he grumpily said it would just have to wait and hung up. Why he was
cross with me I don't know - I think it was guilt by association.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Thankfully, our son-in-law Grant is here to drive the truck for
us. He told me he wasn't needed until 10.30 so, after another call to the
vet, who was again booked out for the day, I locked up Aslan - he wasn't
invited this time - helped Grant load the Puppy-Who-Was-In-Disgrace into the
car and off we headed for Wagga. When I rang I was told there could be
quite a wait and neither Grant nor I were thrilled about that because Graeme
would have the truck ready to go at 10.30 and grandson Ethan, who had come down
to help with harvest as well, isn't old enough to drive the truck. I'm
sure he would have been thrilled to be given the chance, but ... just no.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Thankfully, our vets are all country people who understand about harvest
frenzy and the vet saw Cleo as soon as we arrived. There was a moment
when I had to laugh when we arrived at the vets'. The new Covid-19
system is to ring the receptionist when you arrive and someone will come out
and tend to your pet. I dutifully rang and told the receptionist I had
Cleo in the car-park ready to see the vet. The receptionist told me to
just carry Cleo in and she'd let a vet know. This was obviously a new
receptionist who hasn't met my puppies before. I thanked her, but
silently declined carrying Cleo in. The vet met me almost at the door,
whisked Cleo into the back room, with Cleo wagging her tail furiously because
she was making a new friend. The vet and Cleo returned after a few minutes
when the vet removed the tube and stitches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was told all should be well now so we thankfully headed
home. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Once home again, Cleo had to endure the same over the top welcoming
committee from Wednesday's joyful reunion, but she was bright and happy this
time so she joined in the celebration of being back home, only showing mild embarrassment
when Venus rubbed up against her and generally told the world that Cleo was her
best friend. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">There's nothing I can say to Cleo to make her feel ashamed of her bad
behaviour in getting rid of the tube. In Cleo's mind, it was all win
win. She'd had two more car rides and made a new friend at the vets'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Cleo’s opinion, causing all that trouble
at home and the extra trip to Wagga at a very inconvenient time was worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a good thing I love her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-14178362976769872362020-11-19T10:57:00.000+11:002020-11-19T10:57:09.927+11:00Penny<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYIebeeq709Ij3NyzRnYew82Qzri8ukiwiN73VtHYmkCfJTu2SZaxgveO01XAad_Ik6UWSmiTf5LVmLNLakWFeTDSSqYNyxD0lYApPjPdS7jYjYOlMC4d2dkuXtjWNa7_lDQryWpU7cKV/s1463/Penny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1463" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYIebeeq709Ij3NyzRnYew82Qzri8ukiwiN73VtHYmkCfJTu2SZaxgveO01XAad_Ik6UWSmiTf5LVmLNLakWFeTDSSqYNyxD0lYApPjPdS7jYjYOlMC4d2dkuXtjWNa7_lDQryWpU7cKV/w400-h274/Penny.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>This is the only photo I have of Penny. My mother and sister Robyn are standing behind her.</i></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><p>Penny was the first dog I owned. I received her for my fifth birthday, but she was really a family pet. We were very lucky the owner told my father a small fib about Penny's ancestors, if they'd know the truth they never would have bought Penny. The owner said Penny would grow into a medium sized dog because she was a German Shepherd/Border Collie cross. With this assurance my parents paid for Penny and brought her home. Needless to say my sister Beth and I were thrilled to have this little pup join our family. We already owned a rabbit and cat, but in our house there was always room for another pet. </p><p>It soon became evident that there was very little, if any Border Collie in Penny. She started to grow and she put all her effort into it, soon becoming a very large dog indeed, in fact Penny grew into the largest dog on our street, which was quite an accomplishment. It turned out that Penny was an Airedale/German Shepherd cross and my family began to believe she was the product of the largest <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">specimens </span>of these two breeds.</p></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><p>Penny soon grew into a beautiful, devoted friend and looked on my sisters and me as her pups. She played with us, ate whatever we tried to feed her - sometimes with a very long suffering look because we'd feed her grass or fruit or lettuce and other non-dog type food. Penny grew up with a rabbit (Whisky) and a cat (Tibby) who were both adults when Penny arrived as a naive little pup. The older two pets traded on Penny's naivety and convinced her that dogs, no matter how large they grew, were at the bottom of the pet pecking order and that was where they stayed. I remember lots of games with my three pets where Penny always took care not to hurt any of us, despite her superior size and weight over all of us. To watch this large dog, frolic around a small rabbit and cat and gently bowl them over with her nose and then run as fast as she could before the victim righted itself was one of my lasting memories of Penny. Seeing her curled up asleep, snuggled up to a black and white rabbit and a tabby cat didn't seem strange to me - that was just normal behaviour for my three pets.</p>Penny <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">was the best dog - she looked on my sisters and me as her responsibility, to keep safe no matter who the aggressor was and at times to gently correct our bad behaviour. She wouldn't let any harm come to all her charges. She actually put herself between me and my father on one memorable occasion, when I was little and Dad was after me for something I'd done wrong. She came running when she heard Dad roaring at me. Penny stood in front of me and stared him down, raising her hackles on her back slightly to show she meant business, but she didn't growl or make any threats. She just stood there and wouldn't let him get past her to reach me. Dad decided the dog was supposed to protect us so he walked away, not at all happy about it, but I gave Penny an extra tight hug for coming to my rescue. I still get tears in my when I remember her standing between us, defending me. </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Penny was always available when I was sad. Many times when I was feeling hard done by, or was upset about a genuine grievance, I'd sit with my arms around Penny, telling her my woes and often crying into her fur. Penny sat beside me for as long as I needed, gently wagging her tail to cheer me up, and would occasionally lick my hand or wherever she could reach in a show of solidarity with me. As I grew up, Penny became the repository for all my teenage angst, listening quietly and wagging her tail to show me it would all be better soon. Penny would fret if I cried, be it while telling her my troubles, or if she heard me crying somewhere else. If she wasn't with me when I started to cry, she very quickly made sure she was by my side to offer comfort. Sometimes in her effort to comfort me I'd end up knocked over and lying on the ground while Penny stood over me with a very concerned look on her face. I'd haul myself up, using Penny as support, and do my best to stop crying because it was upsetting her so much. Once I was no longer weepy, Penny would stay by my side for a long time, wherever I went, just to be sure I was OK.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One day, we were quite young, my sister and I were sent to the corner shop to buy a few groceries. I suppose I would have been about six years old at the time. Back then parents thought nothing of sending a six year old and a four year old off to cross a couple of quiet avenue streets and buy whatever was needed. We usually took Penny with us, but on this occasion we didn't for some reason. On the way we encountered a group of boisterous teenagers who were sitting on a fence chatting and laughing. When we approached them they stood along the width of the path and verge and linked arms, stopping us from passing them - they were just having fun, but they seemed so big and scary to me. My sister and I ran home as fast as we could and told Nana. Nana simply told us to take Penny with us and we'd be fine. I knew if Penny was there I could be a lot braver and we headed off with Penny walking beside us while Nana stood at the gate and watched and as we approached the teenagers again. They were back sitting on a fence but when they saw us approach they moved to the path again and linked arms to stop us from passing. Penny moved from beside us to in front of us, raised her hackles, dropped her head and stalked towards them. I remember the sound of her nails clicking on the concrete as she approached the now quiet teenagers. That's all it took - one very large, protective dog daring them to start something. The teenagers opened up like a gate and we kept walking to the shops. The teenagers walked down to where Nana was still watching and told her they were just having fun Nana told them the dog had meant business so it was wise of them to let us past.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Penny big vice was chasing cars. We did our best to keep her in the backyard, away from temptation but our house was built on brick piers and Penny often found a way under the house and out to the front yard. We lived on a blind corner and I dreaded the day Penny and a car met head on. Thankfully this never happened and Penny remained triumphant, warning all strange cars away from her territory. Even though chasing cars was one of Penny's favourite pastimes, she wouldn't let us girls anywhere near the road. When walking with us to the shop or a friend's place Penny became a very strict guardian. She always walked on the grass verge beside the path, closest to the road. Penny never chased cars when she was with us and always looked straight ahead, resisting temptation while on babysitting duty. We tried many times to walk between Penny and the road, but Penny remained firm - the cement path was the place for children and on the cement path we would stay or Penny would take action to make sure we did. Occasionally we'd wander slightly off the path closer to the road only to be met with a large, furry hip that would give a little swish in our direction and the next thing we knew we were shunted back on the path. Despite our many efforts to tease her by moving off the path Penny never relented, even when we were teenagers and Penny was an old dog. Thankfully, Penny gave up chasing cars when she became elderly and preferred to while away the hours snoozing in the sun or in front of our heater in cooler weather.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">When Penny was in her prime we discovered that she had another bad habit. One afternoon a man knocked on our door and asked Nana if she could lock "that big dog" up in the morning and evening when he was riding by on his bicycle to and from work. He told Nana that each day, as he rode by and slowed down for the corner outside our house, Penny would be lying in wait for him. As he slowed down, Penny would dart out onto the road and grab his back wheel with her teeth. He would then go sailing over the handle bars, and as this man told Nana, Penny would then laugh at him. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">That was all she did - once he got back on his bike she let him go. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">We thought it unbelievable that Penny would have the jaw strength to accomplish such a feat, but this man assured Nana that Penny certainly did. Thankfully she somehow never managed to puncture his tyre. He didn't hold any ill will against our dog, in fact I think he admired her strength and sense of humour, but he was sick of being catapulted off his bicycle. Penny was duly tied up morning and night and the poor cyclist as left in peace.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">About the only enemy Penny ever made was the coalman. Back when I was young, we had a coal fire in the winter and had regular deliveries of coal brought to our backyard, by the coalman. On one of his earlier visits he'd encountered Penny who was tied up but barking at him, because she had an innate disapproval of strangers on her territory. He heaved the coal sack around and hit Penny on the head with it. Nana came rushing out and gave him a piece of her mind, and when my Nana gave you a piece of her mind you knew you were in deep trouble. He put the coal sack where it belonged and left. From then on whenever he delivered coal, Penny, who obviously felt Nana had dealt with the coalman far too leniently, strained at the end of her chain, barking and making threats the coalman knew she would carry out if that chain was just a bit lighter. The coalman was silly enough to complain to Nana, who was firmly on Penny's side, about Penny's behaviour and Nan simply told him he'd brought it on himself and he now had to live with it.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite these incidents I've mentioned where Penny raised her hackles or in the case of the coalman, made genuine threats, Penny was a gentle, loving dog. She only showed her meaner side when in defence of her children (or hit with a sack of coal). Penny was often found at the bottom of a pile of children when friends came over to play and she enjoyed every minute of our games. As more children were born in our family (I have three sisters), Penny would sniff the new arrival all over, sigh a deep sigh and add another to her list of responsibilities.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Penny lived to a very old age. I'd married and left home when she was in her later years. I missed her every day I didn't see her, but she always made a big fuss of me when I visited my family. Penny would bustle up to the front door as soon as she heard my voice on the other side, walk up to me with her tail wagging and a big grin on her face. She had cataracts by then, so she mostly went on sound and smell but she never missed a chance to greet me and remember old times. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Every child should grow up with a pet like Penny. She offered unconditional love, boundless patience with little girls and their friends, a warm heart and a strong shoulder to lean on when needed. I was privileged to share have her in my life and her role in my growing years was responsible for my development of my love for animals that exists today.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-62111800265631833882020-09-04T10:35:00.000+10:002020-09-04T10:35:04.703+10:00An Update On The Menagerie - Phoenix<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAbrWsYfHBAJ4IoVhTGbmvLdkBYw_vOPkmuGMklviqd0_C6BvYHqMueIJb070iz7KZGG-vQnQB2jU8JheoJw-k-0XysnzzrJYSXWs2ais3DvXoTs5hYFwAud0q2nNlrz5APSswNq0bAp5/s256/Phoenix+q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="237" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAbrWsYfHBAJ4IoVhTGbmvLdkBYw_vOPkmuGMklviqd0_C6BvYHqMueIJb070iz7KZGG-vQnQB2jU8JheoJw-k-0XysnzzrJYSXWs2ais3DvXoTs5hYFwAud0q2nNlrz5APSswNq0bAp5/w296-h320/Phoenix+q.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">It’s been a while
since I’ve written anything so I thought, as my last post was devoted to the oldest member of the menagerie, I’d catch everyone up on the state of
the nation at Spring Rock. All
inhabitants are well and happy and most of the furred or feathered varieties
are as loony as ever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Phoenix, my beautiful
red rooster, is still ageing disgracefully and spending most of his time in his
bachelor quarters trying to entice any hen who wanders close enough to the chicken wire barrier, in there with him. His strategy is based on the hens’ never
ending quest for tasty morsels. Phoenix
struts around his yard making little clucking sounds, picking up imaginary bits
of choice food and offers to share with the girls. He’s been trying this, what can only be
called a scam, for quite a while now and the girls now ignore his offers of gourmet
worms or seeds, knowing they are empty promises. Sadly, when Phoenix has
his time out in the yard with everyone, even when he genuinely finds some tasty
treat, the girls just show him a cold shoulder. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Phoenix has always
been of the opinion that the world would be a better, brighter place with fewer
roosters in it, himself excepted of course.
With this goal in mind Phoenix has always set about his rooster
eradication plan as soon as a new boy comes to stay. This is one of the reasons Phoenix lives in
his bachelor quarters. The other reason
being that when Phoenix shares quarters with chooks 24 hours a day he becomes a
most unpleasant fellow, attacking anyone who dares enter the chook yard. While living in the bachelor quarters, and
only spending a few hours a day out in the garden, Phoenix is a pussy cat. I can pick him up, stroke his wattles and
generally have a safe and friendly time with him, unlike if I tried the same
thing when he’s in his Mr Hyde mode when living with the girls. I’m lucky if I escape without bleeding shins
after he’s come and me talons first.
Despite this personality flaw I love Phoenix to bits. Phoenix sees me as
his girl when he doesn’t have feathery girls, but when he’s with the hens it’s
all bets off and he acts as if we’ve never met before.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I know Phoenix sees me as his girl because when I enter his yard he immediately starts his picking up imaginary food routine. He'll sometimes pick up a stick and dance up to me and lay it at my feet inviting me to admire it (or possibly eat it - who knows what goes on in that fevered little brain). After the invisible food or stick offering Phoenix will then do a little dance around me, quietly clucking away and showing off his beautiful plumage. I then pick him up and sit down with Phoenix on my lap. This is when the wattle stroking begins. Phoenix has been known to drop off to blissful sleep during this time, but usually he just sits on my lap and enjoys the wattle massage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">When out and about in the afternoon Phoenix, faced with a bunch of hard hearted chooks who don't believe he has tasty food to offer, had to devise
a new “Get A Girl Plan”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has
perfected his plan over the weeks and now has it down pat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let D’Artagnan<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and nine of the girls out each afternoon
after locking up the puppies (George and Emu, the Chinese Silky hens, refuse to
leave their little safe house yard so I give them all the scraps and treats to
make up for being shut ins).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phoenix
remains in his bachelor quarters until D’Artagnan has a head start away from
the chook yard, otherwise Phoenix will pick a fight with the poor fellow as
soon as he’s out of my reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>D’Artagnan
is a rooster of peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s twice
Phoenix’s size but prefers to take the pacifists path in life if he possibly
can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Phoenix’s plan is a
simple one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as he is let out of
his yard he races out to the garden, looks around for any young ladies
separated from the main flock and cuts them from the herd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes he has to content himself with just
the one straggler, but on other occasions his luck is in and he might get as
many as three or four of the girls to himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He then has to keep their interest and stop them joining up with
D’Artagnan and the rest of the girls and I must admit, this keeps him rather
busy, heading off any hen that tries to make a break for the other group, but
he seems happy enough with his mini-harem, even if the girls are there by
gentle duress.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">The rest of the chook
yard inhabitants lead relatively quiet, simple lives, lining up at the gate
like hungry children in a canteen queue around 3.00 each afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is when I usually lock the dogs in the
laundry and open the chook yard gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rounding up in the afternoons can be a bit of a trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most come quietly, accepting the
inevitability of returning to the safe confines of the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two Hamburg pullets like to play dumb no
matter how many times they are herded towards the open gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They manage to veer right or left at the very
last minute and head off into the garden again, clucking madly and trying to
leave the impression that they thought being locked up of a night was
optional, not mandatory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I patiently
round them up and try again and again, my patience admittedly wearing thin at
times with threats about feather dusters being made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t fool them one bit I’m afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They trade on being young and inexperienced
and milk it for all it’s worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I have to round Phoenix up and put him in his bachelor quarters before D'Artagnan will walk through the gate. He knows that, should he be foolhardy enough to enter the yard before Phoenix is gaoled once again, Phoenix will go on the attack, and if there's one thing D'Artagnan wants to avoid it's getting into a rooster fight. Phoenix tends to behave as if he believes he now owns the chook yard and sees no reason why D'Aragnan can't have the bachelor quarters (if I insist that D'Artagnan needs to remain alive). He, Phoenix, struts around the yard, or if it's near sunset, ensconces himself in the shelter with the girls. Once I pick Phoenix up and put him in his quarter D'Artagnan strolls into the yard and behaves like he would have walked in earlier, despite Phoenix's presence, but he had pressing business outside.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">The other part of locking up the poultry of a night is the drakes Adonis, Ares, Darcy and Beaky (the last drake named by Elliott ages four). These four boys like to settle down early in the afternoon and find what they consider to be safe hiding place. This is usually up against a fence where any enterprising fox would have a field day later in the night (can you have a field day at night?). They usually choose the same hiding spot a few days in a row, but then move on to another secret spot. This means that more often than not I have to roam around my very large yard calling, "Duck, duck, duck," until I find them. Usually it's not too difficult because the boys are incapable of no answering me. They immediately start quacking softly to each other (I think they might be telling each other to say quiet so they aren't discovered) and I track down the source of the quacks. I then walk them back to the chook yard and nine times out of ten they come quietly. The tenth time usually ends up with a similar situation as with the Hamburg pullets and I have to try and try again to encourage the suddenly confused drakes through the gate.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Eventually I get all inhabitants of the chook pen into the yard and if things are going well I do a
head count that goes something like this, “Three, three, two, one, one, one,
four,” and I’m happy (three Faverolle hens, three Sussex hens, two Hamburg
pullets, one Bunny (Easter Egger hen), one D’Artagnan, one Phoenix and four
drakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graeme is inclined to shake his
head at my unusual counting method, but it works for me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-60743757926384880592020-06-07T15:20:00.002+10:002020-06-07T15:23:37.955+10:00Tristan<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Tristan
turned 17 at the end of last year. He
has grown into a very sedate, dignified old gentleman and these days, spends
his time sleeping on a little bed I’ve made for him on the lounge. He
occasionally generously shares this bed with Ambrosia or Nefertiti, but I
believe he prefers to while his days away snoozing by himself. The younger generation can be far too
energetic for him – washing their paws or sometimes his face while all he wants
to do is catch up on hard earned sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2f7g-RrSymruapLeYVJ-e4mUrPAJw-eL3o0aCk1DOvyptL0kEMy3DuCW0orLhzle3E2vqSlE-uEgdvPhvcg8XycEt3l_jczujMVbpEX4IYcEBSMrVrFZrrL28sni3NFebktpLYN3JtOuO/s1600/100_0581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2f7g-RrSymruapLeYVJ-e4mUrPAJw-eL3o0aCk1DOvyptL0kEMy3DuCW0orLhzle3E2vqSlE-uEgdvPhvcg8XycEt3l_jczujMVbpEX4IYcEBSMrVrFZrrL28sni3NFebktpLYN3JtOuO/s320/100_0581.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;"><i>Tristan aged 8 weeks.</i></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Tristan
came to live with us in January 2003.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>During one of our craft days here I’d mentioned to my friends that I
hadn’t owned a ginger cat since I was a child and I’d really like to own
another one someday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aileen, my friend
and neighbour, remembered that comment and soon after asked me if I really did
want a ginger cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My answer was a quick
yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aileen then told me her daughter’s
cat had had an illicit liaison (my words, not Aileen’s) with a feral tom cat
and the result, as it inevitably is, was a batch of kittens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among the kitten population was a ginger tom
and he was mine if I wanted him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">After he
was weaned Aileen brought him to the next craft day and I became the proud
owner of the second ginger cat in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My first ginger cat came into my life when I was a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We named him Meggsy, after a comic strip of
the time called Ginger Meggs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meggsy
grew up to be a huge cat who we all adored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had high hopes that this little scrap, who fitted comfortably in my
hand at the moment, would do likewise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
named him Tristan to keep the Arthurian theme going with my cats - Guinevere
and Lancelot were still in residence at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their opinion of this little ginger scrap was
decidedly negative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They felt that the
house operated well on a two cat basis and saw no need to over populate the house
with an excess redhead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I’d like to
say that their attitude towards Tristan changed as time went on, but although
they tolerated his presence, they were never friendly towards him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Guinevere or Lancelot was in a bad mood
poor Tristan was likely to be swatted around the head as a welcome if he tried
to lie down beside them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tristan grew to
be twice Guinevere’s size, but she still remained the boss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tristan made sure he kept out of swatting
range and Guinevere commanded the best spots on the lounge room floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d made a cat pillow big enough for three to
put in front of the heater with the idea that they could all snuggle up and
keep warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end I had to make a
single size pillow for Tristan because he wasn’t allowed on the larger
pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were times when even this
didn’t work, as you can see in the photo, when one or other of the two older
cats wouldn’t even let Tristan lie on that pillow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEsS77NChYSAdFnHWQozWdnazBtd73GjL5hLiVTHQH3lhh3RdfurwKGVPMyk_sZ8mN9oJ4lY4yW1aPBxKaZymCohOhw8At0B07d2ddvxsCsth2iPkKTXemWNxp9WQi0UezQY5lpa6I_oU/s1600/liildjchlbgmkcdl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="417" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEsS77NChYSAdFnHWQozWdnazBtd73GjL5hLiVTHQH3lhh3RdfurwKGVPMyk_sZ8mN9oJ4lY4yW1aPBxKaZymCohOhw8At0B07d2ddvxsCsth2iPkKTXemWNxp9WQi0UezQY5lpa6I_oU/s400/liildjchlbgmkcdl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Guinevere (left) and Lancelot keeping Tristan
in his place.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Tristan
didn’t care about the two older cats really. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as he joined the family he found the
person he loved the most and spent all his time as a kitten trying to convince
Graeme that he should pick Tristan up and shower him with pats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graeme couldn’t sit down anywhere without a
cute little ginger kitten sitting on his lap and looking up at him with adoring
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tristan won Graeme over in a very
short space of time, but he really had an unfair advantage with all that
cuteness working in his favour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While
Graeme is not an animal person I know he still has a soft spot for
Tristan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear him talking to our
ginger fellow from time to time and Graeme always has a pat for the old boy
these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">For a while
it looked like Tristan was going to be the only sane animal in the Spring Rock
menagerie but it didn’t take long for the general lunacy among the four legged
population to rub off on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d often
spend quite a bit of time channelling Meerkats for no particular reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I wondered what he was looking at,
all stretched up like that on the floor, but our windows were too high for him
to be trying to look out of them, and there really wasn’t anything else in the
room interesting enough to explain Tristan’s strange sitting position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As with all my pets’ loony behaviour, I just
let him be – if it made him happy to sit like that then so be it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been a while since I’ve seen the Meerkat pose.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Age and old bones makes sitting up like that
very difficult I imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXma20gBh13tEB-6VUfGTgOAtsJqAPgGWr55t6TrNc6Zvd-FZpKMTtrEBGW_MU2P4yE6CDP1hS52apk_t24TuUDSM8SN-d3GawVxBmWAWT6Oh_9RkX4dOE0Cv1XLOEptM-0Z4j9kaDgms/s1600/peednkopjapkoecc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="275" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXma20gBh13tEB-6VUfGTgOAtsJqAPgGWr55t6TrNc6Zvd-FZpKMTtrEBGW_MU2P4yE6CDP1hS52apk_t24TuUDSM8SN-d3GawVxBmWAWT6Oh_9RkX4dOE0Cv1XLOEptM-0Z4j9kaDgms/s400/peednkopjapkoecc.jpg" width="300" /></a><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="text-align: center;">Tristan doing the Meerkat thing.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Another of
Tristan’s youthful eccentricities was his habit as a young cat to sulk with his
face turned towards the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I
scolded him for some wrong doing, or Lancelot or Guinevere has been
particularly severe in their name calling, Tristan would walk over to the wall
near the lounge room doorway, turn to face the wall and then sit there staring
at it for quite a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After Lancelot
and Guinevere died Tristan stopped this peculiar habit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think that this was because he was now
the senior cat and felt he had to set a good example for the kittens, Ambrosia
and Guinevere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">When these
two kittens arrived at Spring Rock Tristan was six years old – a similar age to
what Guinevere and Lancelot had been when Tristan arrived on the scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worried that history would repeat itself
and Tristan would shun the new arrivals, but thankfully he gave each kitten a
sniff and a lick on the face and promised to be their friend for life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has never gone back on his word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like all siblings, there might be the odd
argument or even a heated battle, but once it blows over they are friends
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t welcome Venus with the
same live and let live policy I’m afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course this might have had something to do with the fact that the
first time he met Venus she was still basically feral and in season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To say she was grumpy was putting it
mildly!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was against the existence of
almost every living creature on Earth and was more than happy to prove it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she muscled her way into the house one
day Tristan met her at the door and offered a friendly nose rub, despite
Ambrosia and Guinevere, mumbling obscenities in the background.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Venus lulled Tristan into a false sense of
security by returning the nose bump and looking the picture of innocence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, when Tristan turned his back on her,
she jumped him, landing on his back with her teeth firmly planted in his
neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After that memorable first meeting
Tristan preferred to give Venus a wide berth if she came into the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Once Venus
became a domesticated cat she found the three residents could hold a grudge for
a very long time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They remained unforgiving
of her bad behaviour during her hormonal state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ambrosia and Guinevere said it with teeth, claws and bad language, while
Tristan settled for just a low growl and leaving the room if he found Venus in
residence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tristan was the first to
unbend and tolerate Venus’ presence, but none of the three cats have ever
unbent enough to extend a friendly paw to Venus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We live in a state of armed truce here now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">As a young,
energetic cat Tristan used to like to roam over the farm, often staying away
for a night or two, or on a couple of memorable occasions, for a week or
two!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent this time going down
rabbit holes and generally making himself a nuisance with the rabbits in the
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew this because he would
return home with his ears covered in rabbit fleas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His ears would be black with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rabbit fleas seem to behave more like ticks
than fleas, for which I am truly grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’d burrow in to Tristan’s ears and stay put until Graeme and I had a
long flea removing session with Tristan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I knew Tristan fully expected us to do something about the annoying
fleas, because as soon as he came home he’d sit on my lap and stare at Graeme
until the tweezers appeared and we got to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once the job was done, Tristan would thank us and then go find somewhere
for a peaceful, flea free nap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">As he got
older Tristan’s forays outside have become fewer and fewer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These days he might stand at the front door
and ask to go out every now and then but it doesn’t take much for him to change
his mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll open the door and wait
while Tristan looks out, whiskers bristling forward while he debates the issue
or going or staying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless the weather
outside is perfect Tristan will back up and tell me he’s changed his mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always has a look of regret on his face,
remembering the days of his youth when nothing would prevent his spirit of
adventure calling him outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he
does go out these days he rarely wanders off the front veranda and only stays
out for a few minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all slow down
when we get older and Tristan is no exception.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Tristan is
now showing signs of arthritis and I’m waiting for the Covid-19 virus to abate
so I can take him to the vets’ to see what can be done for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime I bought a grooming glove so
I can groom the parts of his body he can’t reach (down near base of the tail
and along his spine mostly). Thus Tristan’s
beautiful ginger coat is maintained. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve recently bought him a pet heat pad, on
which he can spend his days napping in warm comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve placed it on the lounge on top of a
couple of folded quilts with a faux fur throw over it for added comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Tristan’s new favourite spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is happy to share it with Nefertiti, who
also likes her creature comforts, but on the occasions when she gets a bit
uppity and tries to hog the whole thing, Tristan has proved he isn’t too old to
defend is territory and with a quick nip and growl, sends Nefertiti about her
business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYLWFR7GNumkygAYVhZtg8vGiIuc5snlJX8O8rgS09gy3eiEQZXT6bEX6_9jfHGQwpQQTHK4pmRAsurTnPaGkvmPNn7OXmy43OjclvHvnC4d6YFhCmx_qCbrGFl3dwSGCJMyRK9uUVJJo/s1600/Tristan+070620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1385" data-original-width="1600" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYLWFR7GNumkygAYVhZtg8vGiIuc5snlJX8O8rgS09gy3eiEQZXT6bEX6_9jfHGQwpQQTHK4pmRAsurTnPaGkvmPNn7OXmy43OjclvHvnC4d6YFhCmx_qCbrGFl3dwSGCJMyRK9uUVJJo/s400/Tristan+070620.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><i>My old ginger gentleman enjoying his heated pad.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Tristan likes
to keep his coat glossy with an egg a day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wanders out to the kitchen when he hears me
making lunch and will simply sit and look at me until I remember my responsibilities.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His daily egg has to be “mushed”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tristan has never been a fan of egg white so I
began whisking his egg to encourage him to eat the whole thing and not just the
yolk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tristan liked this idea so much he
now refuses to eat his egg until I has mushed it for him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He once waited half an hour, sitting beside his
bowl, waiting for me to return and prepare his egg the way he liked it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d broken the egg into his bowl and then been
distracted by a phone call. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d wandered
away to do other things, forgetting about the poor cat who could see his egg but
not eat it in its unprepared state. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually
it all got too much for Tristan and he came and found me, escorted me back to the
bowl and gave me a significant look to remind me of my duties. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I apologised (of course), whisked the egg and presented
it to Tristan who nodded regally at me before tucking in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">I’m sure he was thinking that good servants were
hard to find these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-86803517375545869402020-03-24T11:42:00.000+11:002020-05-24T07:09:18.266+10:00The Great Escape<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I've owned ferrets for over twenty years now. I've tried to
explain to people how this came about, but few understand. In 1997 I
became the proud owner of Isabella and Theodore, two ferrets that my elder son,
Josh, had bought as pets after we bought Spring Rock.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Josh and his sister, Bec, stayed in the
Camden area, sharing a rental house. My younger son, Justin, and I
stayed in that rental house for a month at the end of 1996 to finish the school
year after Graeme moved to the farm. Justin and I moved down to
Spring Rock just before Christmas. When Josh brought Isabella home
I ended up being the person to socialise the baby ferret. I was chosen
because I'd had lots of experience socialising children, both my own and
students, and as my kids said, "How much harder could it be to socialise a
little fluff ball?" Well, all I can say is that your average child
doesn't have razor sharp teeth and the determination to get their own way by
using them! </span><br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Isabella came to school each day in a spacious box filled with
toys, food and litter tray. She quickly discovered that an infants' class
was preferable to sitting in a box all day. She'd escape every chance
she'd get, sneak out into the class room, sniff the children's ankles (which
was a highlight of the day for most of them) and then come and sit on my feet
before going back to sleep. My students were never more well behaved that
when Isabella invaded their class room. They knew if they made a noise or
did anything to excite her I'd put her back in the box.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
After I moved to Spring Rock I had a ferret free year apart from the few months
when Isabella and Theodore visited for Theodore's socialisation lessons.
Once he was mellowed out and learned not to bite people the ferrets went home to
live with Bec and Josh. They had a few adventures while there.
Theodore proved to be very adept at finding ways out of his cage. He'd
then go exploring and often visited the next door neighbour, where he'd open
their sliding door, enter the house and make straight for their carpet where
he'd roll on his back and give himself a carpet massage while the owner of the
house rang Bec to come and get her ferret. On one memorable
occasion Theodore managed to get himself into trouble. Instead of
making for the neighbour's carpet he explored his own backyard, managing
to fall down an old well, despite the fact that it had a cover on it before
Theodore encountered it. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
When Bec got home and found only one resident in the ferret cage, and after
checking with the neighbour in case Theodore was visiting, she mounted a search
and noticed the cover over the well was slightly askew. She found the
missing ferret treading water in the bottom of a very deep well. Bec and
Josh then formed a human chain so they could reach the very damp and very sorry
ferret. Theodore thanked them very much with damp ferret kisses and was
dried off and returned to his cage. You'd think that would teach him a
lesson and he'd quit escaping and learn to lead an exemplary life in his
spacious cage. Not our Theodore. He continued to visit the
neighbour's carpet, just making sure he gave the well a wide berth.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
On one expedition Theodore went missing for two weeks. Despite daily
searches and asking every neighbour in the street, Theodore remained missing in
action. At one stage a stranger knocked on their door holding a ferret up
for inspection. He worked at a near-by factory and this little ferret had
wandered in one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d heard Bec and
Josh were looking for a lost ferret so brought him around for inspection.
Sadly, it wasn't Theodore so the fellow took the ferret away to try and find
its owner. Bec and Josh gave up ever seeing Theodore again after two
weeks of fruitless searching. Then one day the phone rang. Their
neighbour was on the other end and simply said, "He's back."
That was all that was needed for Bec and Josh to rush around and retrieve a
much thinner Theodore. More efforts were made to escape proof the cage
and Theodore didn't escape again - whether due to the new anti-escape measure the
kids took, or because he was finally over his desire to explore, we never knew.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
In 1998 Bec and Josh moved to separate rental homes and pets were not
allowed. Thus I became a ferret owner. Isabella and Theodore
settled in well and apart from one very dramatic day, life was good, although
Graeme is not and never has been a ferret type person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We worked around this minor problem so humans
and ferrets could live relatively harmoniously together. The dramatic
day? Well, it ended in me giving CPR to a little, lifeless
ferret. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">I had Theodore and Isabella out playing in the lounge room and it
became time to put them away. I found Theodore quickly and popped
him in his cage but couldn't find Isabella anywhere. I ended up tipping
up lounge chairs and moving furniture around in an effort to find where she
must have been sleeping (she always came when she was called). Somehow
when I moved one of the lounge chairs Isabella manage to get herself stuck
under it. She gave a loud shriek and then nothing. I quickly
retrieved her only to find that she wasn't breathing and I couldn't feel a
heartbeat. I gave her mouth to mouth and massaged her chest in an effort
to get her heart going again and after a few frantic minutes, that felt like
hours, Isabella coughed and put her head up to look at me with
accusing eyes. I apologised profusely, kept her with me for quite a
while to make sure she was going to survive and finally put her in the cage
with Theodore. After that we tried not to have any more dramas, and by
and large managed it.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Occasionally Theodore would find a way out of the cage. His
first port of call was always the back door where he scratched until I answered
his call. Theodore would then give me a little ferret smile and run
around my legs and into the house. I am very thankful that he always came
to tell me he was out of the cage. We have a lot more predators who would
enjoy a little ferret for a snack than where he last lived.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
Now for the reason that over twenty years later I am still a ferret owner
(apart from the fact that I love ferrets). When Theodore and Isabella
became old ferrets and Isabella died, Theodore pined for his friend. He
stopped eating, curled up in a little ball of misery and decided that life
without Isabella wasn't worth living. I rang Bec who made an emergency
trip to the Ferret Welfare Society of NSW and bought two young ferrets whom I
named Albus and Miette. When Theodore, and much later Albus, died of
old age Miette reacted just as Theodore had and Bec once again arrived days
later with Horton and Ebony to reanimate Miette's interest in life. And
so it has gone over the years with each survivor of a pair being provided with
young ferrets to provide company and an interest in life again.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
My latest two ferrets, Freya and Charis are very young at the moment, - Freya
is about three years old and Charis is four months old. They are now the
best of friends and work together to solve problems, stash stolen items and
generally behave just as ferrets should. Recently they have set us a
challenge. They have learned to open the doors on their inside cage.
We thought at first that the door hadn't been closed properly, but after their
third escape it became apparent that they were able to open the door no matter
how securely we closed it. Graeme put clothes pegs on the tops of the
doors to stop the ferrets being able to push up the latch. I don't know
if you know how smart ferrets are, but all I can say is it's a good thing they
don't have opposable thumbs or they'd be the master race on Earth!
It wasn't long before they figured out that if Graeme put the pegs there then
the pegs were obviously the reason they could no longer get the door
open. The solution? Get rid of the pegs first and then open the cage
door as before. They work as a well trained team to manoeuvre things, and
their little feet are very dexterous in removing pegs or lifting cage door
bars. Graeme next put a piece of wood through the door handles.
This worked for a very short while and then they learned to tip it up, causing
it to slide towards the floor and release one door for opening. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Graeme then put the wood though the handles and put the pegs on so
they were facing away from the ferrets (less for them to get hold of) through
the door and holding the wood in place. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">They have now learned to remove the pegs and the piece of wood
Graeme used to bar their cage door. So far we have caught them each time
before they've got the door open but I know another escape is imminent.
The good thing about their escapes from their inside cage is they always come
to find me to let me know they have escaped. I woke up very early one
morning a while back, to find something was climbing up my side of the
bed. I thought a cat had managed to get out of the bathroom so put my
hand over the side of the bed to give it a pat (I was still mostly asleep) only
to have a little face lick my hand and give it a gentle nip. That woke me
up and Freya was returned to her cage. Yesterday, when she escaped, she
came into the lounge room to look for me, only to find my son in law Grant
first. Grant and Graeme share the same opinion of ferrets, so she got a
very cool welcome before Bec scooped her up and returned her to her cage.
Each time the ferrets escaped after that I found them on their way to the
bedroom. Maybe they thought I was back in there? Anyway, Graeme is
up to the challenge and is planning to turn the ferret cage into a maximum
security version from which no ferret will ever escape. The ferrets say,
"Bring it on!"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Graeme versus ferrets - this will be a clash of the Titans!</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Freya checking out the door latch.</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-26374973564583471362020-02-29T15:27:00.001+11:002020-02-29T16:35:53.971+11:00Charis Comes To Spring Rock<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">A few weeks ago Spring Rock welcomed a new baby ferret. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The need to add to the ferret population came
about because Eris, sister of Freya, died </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif";">suddenly and tragically
a couple of weeks ago. Freya and I mourned her sister's death but, as is
the case of many ferrets I've owned who have lost a companion ferret, Freya
became so sad she lost interest in eating, playing and causing ferret mayhem
around the house. Eris died just two days before Graeme and I were due to
go away for a few days and I spent the last day before our break carrying
around a sad little ferret and worrying about her being by herself while we
were gone. I conscripted Justin, Savannah and Elliott into
visiting half way through our trip and keeping Freya company. I
also gave Freya a soft toy to keep her company. I was nearly brought to
tears, but also relieved, when Freya tried to drag the purple toy cat into her
sleeping bag where she and Eris always slept together.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_iRN-U0FDvRFKZ0zlYSzv_DwxoQCCvskSK9dGYzTtgcMTSkHgYiX2zXaoY0XPQOYhiykWt81gSGw5JfX7UphSAM4KRQCwRkH_4a55ATC3IbrG1Abj4OuhhNNYWVraY2ZR1trCkF_7ZIO/s1600/Elliott+%2526+Freyer+070220.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_iRN-U0FDvRFKZ0zlYSzv_DwxoQCCvskSK9dGYzTtgcMTSkHgYiX2zXaoY0XPQOYhiykWt81gSGw5JfX7UphSAM4KRQCwRkH_4a55ATC3IbrG1Abj4OuhhNNYWVraY2ZR1trCkF_7ZIO/s400/Elliott+%2526+Freyer+070220.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span><i style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Elliott Visiting Freya
while we were away.</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><br />
As soon as we were home I started searching for a new friend for Freya. I
have sourced all my ferrets in the past from the Ferret Welfare Society of NSW
or another ferret rescue organisation, but there are no rescue organisations
within easy travelling distance from my home and, as none of my children living
near a rescue place were visiting in the near future, I turned to the
internet to help me this time. I found a person selling 12 week old baby
ferrets who lived down on the Albury/Wodonga border. There was one
little girl and two boys left. I thought a girl might settle in
faster with Freya who had lived with her sister all her life.
Arrangements were made and we drove the two hours to pick up the little girl
(we country dwellers consider two hours to be within reasonable travelling
distance).</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Charis, not yet sure she
was going to like Freya (whose tail can be seen on the right), or anyone else
for that matter.</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">The baby ferret proved to be a very pretty little thing,
if also possessed of an attitude. Beck, the young woman selling her,
brought the baby ferret to an agreed meeting spot in a wooden ferret carrier,
used to transport working ferrets to farms. She opened the carrier and a
little brown head popped up with a very cross expression on her face.
Beck then went to pick up the little ball of fluff who had other ideas about
leaving the carrier. A quick and quiet tussle ensued and the fluff ball
remained right where she was. Beck asked her if she was coming out or not
- not the best tactic I thought because obviously the answer was, "Or
not!" After a few more attempts Beck had hold of the
feisty little thing and gingerly handed her over to me. I said hello
and told her she was a cute little thing. This failed to impress the
little ferret who simply yawned in my face. I placed her in our much
roomier carrier which contained one of Freya's blankets (in the hope that on
the journey home the little ferret would become used to the new ferret scent)
and we drove home. On the way home I named the baby Charis,
from the Greek Pantheon. The goddess Charis <span style="background: white;">was one of the</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Charities or
Graces. She was goddesses of charm, beauty, nature, human creativity and
fertility so I hoped she'd grow into her name eventually, except for the
fertility part. </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><br />
Charis </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">was
not impressed with leaving her brothers. When she arrived home she was spoiling
for a fight. She tried taking her bad mood out on me by biting me, but
I've had ferrets for over 20 years now and was prepared for her tantrum.
She failed to connect to skin with each attempt to sink her teeth in; while I
gently stroked her back and told her all would be well soon. She
threatened me with her tiny, but somehow still impressive, baby ferret teeth
and generally let me know she wasn't going to be my friend </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif";">ever</span></u></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">! After failing to
draw blood or start a big fight with me Charis turned her bad mood on Freya who
is three years old and well versed in the ways of ferrets in bad moods too (her
sister Eris was a biter until I showed her the errors of her ways), and simply
kept out of the marauding little ferrets way. With Freya either
deftly dodging her teeth or managing to sink hers into Charis all Charis could
do was retire to the sleeping bag and refuse to socialise. Freya and I
heaved a sigh of relief and went about our business, although I did spot Freya
wandering over and sniffing the sleeping bag from time to time.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">The next few days were fraught with tension. The
two ferrets drew their battle lines and both embarked on a war of
domination. There were lots of skirmishes, which I let go their length in
the hope they'd fight it out and find peace together, and a few all out wars,
which I broke up. The two little furry people slept in different parts of
the cage and all looked hopeless for someone who hadn't gone through all this
many times before. I wasn't worried that they'd eventually call peace and
build firm friendship; I just hated the sorting out top ferret part of the
social interaction. Freya was already sad and to have this little ball of
fury keep nipping at her and behaving in a generally unfriendly manner broke my
heart. After about five or six interminable days Freya and Charis laid
down the hatchet and sharp teeth and became the best of friends. As proof
that all the fighting is now behind them they sleep in a ferret pile in one of
the hammocks and enjoy simultaneous cuddles with me.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Charis required a fair bit of socialisation with humans
though. Her first few encounters with being picked up and patted ended in
me heading for the Band-aid drawer to bandage yet another finger. She
refused to use the litter tray (which required a lot of disinfectant and
scrubbing during this, best forgotten about, period of her adjustment to life
at Spring Rock) and made a huge mess of the cage and family room floor by
insisting on spreading all the dry food out of the cage and over the
floor. In short, Charis decided to get even with her abductors by
making as much mess as she possibly could, and for one little ferret she could
make a lot of mess! I spent a great deal of time each day sweeping up the
kitty litter and/or dry food. The tray under the ferret cage quickly
filled with litter and food as well as ferret droppings, making it hard to
recycle the uneaten dry food. Charis just sneered at us when taken to task
for her behaviour or turned her back on me and returned to scratching out the
litter or food. But, as I've said, I have owned ferrets for over 20
years now and I've met with all sorts of difficult little furry people.
Some of their traits were rather cute, others frustrating and a few downright
painful, but after a lot of gentle training and a lot of patience, every ferret
I've owned has become, if not a model citizen, then at least a basically nice
ferret. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">One of the habits I was unable to fix included Isabella's
(my first ferret's) attraction to my cotton reels, thimbles and other sewing
notions. I often thought Isabella had a sewing project of her own in mind
and was stockpiling for the day she found time to begin. Isabella stored
all her stolen stash behind a very large bookcase in the lounge
room. She stowed the thread, thimbles, fabric etc at the very end of the
bookcase where neither long arms nor dowel could reach them. I am now the
proud owner of far too many thimbles because, before we moved the bookcase and
I retrieved all my sewing notions, all I could do was go out and buy new
thimbles when my stockpile, no matter how carefully guarded, was depleted by
one determined little ferret. There was one time Isabella tried to pull a
thimble off my finger to add to her stash, but I'm proud to say I won that tug
of war. </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><br />
But, I digress - back to the socialisation of Charis. Persistence on my
part has resulted in a cute little ferret who now uses the litter tray and
leaves the dry food in its container. She allows me to pick her up and
pat her, giving me gentle little ferret nips that means she considers me part
of her family, but I wouldn't trust her with my grandchildren just yet, the way
I do Freya. We'll get there though. Freya is a happy ferret
once again and is even starting to play with Charis. I think she still
misses her sister because she won't go in the ferret tunnel at all (one of hers
and Eris' favourite games), despite Charis trying to coax her in. I find
that very sad and hope that one day soon Freya challenges Charis to a tunnel
war, where both ferrets enter the tunnel at different ends and see who can push
the other ferret out backwards. </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><br />
Freya better hurry up though, Charis won't stay a baby ferret forever and
Freya's best chance of winning the tunnel war will be while Charis is small.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">
Freya and Charis,
friends at last.</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-15737709493504119802020-01-10T07:10:00.000+11:002020-01-10T07:16:14.432+11:00Ben<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This story is about Ben, a beautiful German Shepherd
who came into my life over thirty years ago.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ben was a failed guard dog.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">He’d
undergone some rather suspect training to guard a reclamation yard at night and
hadn’t shown that steely personality needed to strike fear into the hearts of
would be thieves.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I mentioned Ben’s training was highly
suspect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He arrived at my mother’s house
as a very nervous, anxious to please, but not sure of his welcome two year old
dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before that he’d failed to make the
grade as a guard dog and then been passed on to my father, who found Ben to be
far too much of a woos for his tastes. Ben was then passed on to my
mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother had a dreadful record
with training animals, they tended to walk all over her (sometimes literally)
and a dog as big as Ben, who’d found he liked this new relaxed way of living
and took shameful advantage of it, ultimately became too much for my mother and
sisters to handle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was asked if I
could find a good home for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I felt dreadfully sorry for Ben, but with
Aasta, my Old English Sheepdog and Buffy, the Whippet, I couldn’t talk Graeme
into adopting a German Shepherd whom Graeme had seen on his worst
behaviour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew Ben responded to
obedience training – he behaved well for my father after all, but finding him a
home where he’d quickly learn that he was loved, but had to behave himself was
a bit daunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until I looked over the
fence towards my neighbours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had
had German Shepherds in the past, and preferred that breed to any other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sonja was a very matter of fact person and
Bert, standing and 6’ 4” (this was pre-metric days but converts to 1.9 metres
for those modern readers), tended to command everyone’s respect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made the offer and Sonja was quick to say
yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Graeme and I picked Ben up from my mother’s
home and embarked on the hour’s drive to our place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben sat up in the back of the station wagon
and enjoyed the sights while I lectured him on the behaviour expected in his
new life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben listened with half an ear,
but I got the feeling that he was enjoying the ride, while plotting more
misdeeds when he got back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things
took a scary turn for Ben when we moved out of the suburbs and into the rural
area close to our five acre home at The Oaks near Camden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was Ben, admiring the scenery and
wondering where all the houses had gone when he spotted some huge creatures
with horns just a few yards from where he was sitting in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully they disappeared quickly, so he
tried to forget all about them but more and more of these worrying looking
monsters kept appearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could almost
hear Ben thinking, “Where are these people taking me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know my behaviour has slipped a bit lately,
but surely they aren’t going to feed me to these monsters!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself,
sank down until he was below the level of the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things improved greatly after that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t see the horned monsters and he
was pretty sure they couldn’t see him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We arrived home and I took Ben to meet his
new family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben behaved politely (I
think the cows had duly chastened him for a while), gave himself a tour of
Sonja’s five acres, came inside and noted the most comfortable places for a big
dog to rest, quickly found out that big dogs rested on the floor in this house,
not anywhere they pleased as in his old home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With a philosophical air Ben walked in the circle so many dogs require before
settling down and found a comfortable spot of the fluffy mat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I said goodbye to Ben, he was inclined
to follow me, likely in the hope that I would return him to his home where he
reigned supreme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I explained to him that
he belonged to Sonja, and with quick presence of mind, Sonja offered him some
food in the kitchen while I made my escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thus a love affair began to blossom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ben quickly learned what was and was not acceptable behaviour and Sonja
fell in love with this gorgeous boy who was always a bit of a scamp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Ben did backslide and misbehave in some
way, he was scolded straight away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben
would then retire to the bathroom, sit in the corner and refuse to look at or talk
to anyone until he got over his sulks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally
when I visited there’d be no sign of a large German Shepherd and Sonja would
simply point towards the bathroom door, standing ajar, with the sight of Ben,
face to the wall, ignoring us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben would come out and socialise
eventually, letting Sonja know she was forgiven, but it has to be said that Ben’s
behaviour quickly improved and he did his best to be a good boy for his new
family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ben loved following Bert around the five
acres, chatting with my two dogs through the fence, studiously ignoring the
goats (another horned breed he previously had no idea existed and if it was up
to him just wouldn’t exist) and generally enjoyed his new life, despite the
enforced rules about things like stealing food, getting up on furniture and
pulling on leads when out walking (Bert and Sonja proved to be opposed to all
these previous past times of Ben’s).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ben seemed to remember his guard dog training
very sketchily and never showed any tendency to reprise those lessons until one
day when Sonja was very ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sonja was
experiencing a great deal of pain and felt very off on this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was out shopping so she couldn’t call on me
for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because Sonja was in such pain
and felt so ill she rang our local doctor and described her symptoms rather
than trying to drive into the town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marvin, the doctor, said he had a room full of patients but would come
out and see her as soon as he was free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tragically
Sonja knew there was little use calling the ambulance in the days before
GPS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During a medical emergency a few
years before this it had taken over an hour for the ambulance to find her
house, so as Sonja’s condition worsened and there was no sign of Marvin, Sonja
rang Bert at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bert came straight
home, saw that Sonja was really in a bad way and put her in the car and took her to hospital – just in time as it turned
out, Sonja had an ectopic pregnancy and her fallopian tube had burst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was taken to surgery and Bert settled in
to a very worrying wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sonja, who
obviously had bigger problems on her mind, hadn’t mentioned that Marvin
intended coming out to see her, so Bert was completely unaware Marvin needed to
be told where Sonja was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Meanwhile, back at the farm …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Marvin finished his surgery hours and headed
out to check on Sonja.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knocked on the
door but there was no answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sonja’s
car was parked near the house so he was sure she hadn’t gone anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he knocked again and there was no answer
he tried the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was unlocked so he
went inside to check that Sonja wasn’t lying unconscious somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben greeted him at the door, and despite never
having met Marvin before, greeted him like an old friend, wagged his tail furiously and welcomed Marvin to his home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben, remembering the duties that fall to all
good hosts, followed Marvin as he conducted a room to room search.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben wagged his tail some more and behaved as if Marvin
was a long lost friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marvin was
allowed, even encouraged, to check out each room and Ben even helped by nudging
open some doors himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this lulled
Marvin into what turned out to be a false sense of security.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Having established that Sonja wasn’t home and
there was no more he could do, Marvin headed for the back door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, without warning, Ben channelled his
old guard dog training days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood
between Marvin and the door and with a display that would have made his
horrible trainers proud, showed his very impressive set of teeth and emitted a
low growl. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben was clearly saying, “You
want to look around the house – that’s fine, I’ll show you all you want to
see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, you want to leave?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’ think so!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marvin, not surprisingly took a few steps
back and Ben immediately became the happy host once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each and every attempt to leave however was
met with the same show of teeth and low growl from Ben.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Marvin finally had the brilliant idea to see
if Sonja had been admitted to hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was put through to Bert (these were pre-mobile phone days so communications
were a bit more complicated).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marvin
described his plight to Bert and Bert advised Marvin to make himself a cup of
coffee, sit down and relax until Bert could get home and set him free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Bert arrived home, Marvin made a quick
exit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben was perfectly willing to let
him go now that Bert was here and could check Marvin out to make sure he hadn’t
lifted the family silver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bert, after a
word or two to Ben about the correct way to treat unexpected visitors, returned
to the hospital and Sonja made a complete recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story of Ben taking Marvin prisoner soon
percolated through The Oaks and many had a good laugh at the poor doctor’s
expense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben remained unrepentant, but
was never again called on to play host when Bert and Sonja weren’t home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-30240447567224661332020-01-04T11:34:00.002+11:002020-01-04T11:34:58.833+11:00Summer With The Menagerie <br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">How are you all faring in this
heat - well those of you who live in Australia that is? It's predicted to top 45 degrees Celsius here today (that's 113 degrees Fahrenheit for those who haven't converted to metric). We've had more than a week of very hot days here and caring for the residents of Spring Rock is very time consuming I can tell you. I spend most hot
days catering to the various needs of the menagerie, trying to keep them as comfortable as possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">I have draped 90% shade cloth over the aviary for Hedwig and Hermes. They are also kept
cool with a honey bucket filled with frozen water, once the ice melts I swap it out for another bucket (these mini buckets take up a good
deal of room in the freezer). At first Hedwig objected to me putting
the little bucket up where she and Hermes perch and threatened to knock it onto the cage floor, just to show me she wasn't in favour of anything new in her aviary. She made her objections felt rather loudly until she moved in to throw the bucket off her feed bin where she was sitting. It didn't take long
for her to realise just how good it felt to cuddle up to a bucket of
ice. I could see her debating which course to follow - continue to object because this was something new in the aviary and Hedwig is decidedly anti new things, or accept the ice bucket and enjoy the coolness. She now makes room for the buckets when I change them over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Hedwig and Hermes enjoying munching on a stalk of mint in the shade provided by the shadecloth.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Brown snakes are also a consideration in summer on Spring Rock - not that I provide relief from the heat for them of course. Graeme has found them drinking water out of our fish pond, up in the chook yard and, much more commonly, in the aviary. All but two of our dams are dry and most of the dams in the district are also dry so finding water at snake level is getting to be a challenge for the snakes in the area. The water is in a trough on the ground in the aviary because we have Snowball and Cinders, two silky roosters, in residence there as well as the galahs. There are also a few mouse holes leading into the aviary - despite our efforts to get rid of them - which also attract the snakes who d</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">on't mind finding a snack as well as a drink when they visit. Thankfully the visiting snakes have never shown any interest in the roosters, who assume the characteristics of fluffy statues while the snake moves around the aviary floor. Galahs have a special "There's A Snake!! There's A Snake!!" warning screech they use for no other purpose, so we always know when one visits. Graeme puts on his heavy duty gum boots, grabs our snake deterrer and goes into battle. So far this year we've had five snakes visit the aviary, two visit the fish pond and one up near the chook yard. It keeps me on my toes when I'm out and about tending to hot members of the outside animal population</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">I've always admired the self sufficiency or my four gold fish. They go about their days requiring very little attention and keeping the pond mosquito wriggler free, but in this heat the fish pond needs constant topping up with precious tank water. We placed the pond in the shade of a Kurrajong tree and added a spreading waterlily plant but, unless the snakes are drinking an awful lot of water, evaporation is still causing the pond water level to dip dramatically on a daily basis. The four resident fish look a bit panicked if I don't keep the water topped up and the pump spaying oxygenated water back into the pond each day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Venus, now a fully integrated member of the menagerie, needs to be brought
inside over and over again. She's one of those cats that believe the
other side of a closed door is the best place to be, so I keep having to
check that she's inside and if she's not I call her in to enjoy the air
cooler. The other three cats are self caring and find the coolest spot
that isn't in the kitchen, which is usually inhabited by the puppies. As the cats all feel these cooler spots around the house are on
the floor somewhere I have to be careful not to step on a recumbent cat as I go about my daily chores.</span><br />
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<i style="text-align: center;">Venus lying so there is maximum tummy exposure to the cool air coming out of our air cooler duct.</i></div>
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Nefertiti thinking, "It's far too hot. Mum needs to turn down the sun."</div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Tristan, who has become an old, dignified man, lying within range of the cool air but not too close to Venus.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Another favourite spot for Venus is on my computer desk batting at my hand as I move the mouse around when using the computer - slows me down a bit, I can tell you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The chooks and drakes have the best
spot on the farm on hot days, but I need to keep the water up to them and try to convince
them all that under the big pine tree is cooler than out and about in the
yard. If I let them out they'd all go and scratch around and most
likely give themselves heat stroke. So I listen to their complaints but
keep the gate firmly shut.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The puppies of course are
inside - sporting their new bibs and lying on the kitchen floor under an air cooler duct. Aslan, in an
effort to gain maximum coolness lies on the tiles with his tongue
lolling out soaking up the cool. Cleo is usually found in a very
unladylike pose on her back with all four legs splayed wide allowing
maximum tummy exposure to the cool air. Both puppies manage to take up most of the kitchen floor and navigating between the refrigerator and kitchen sink is always fraught with danger. Asking one or other of them to move out of the way is often counterproductive. Cleo will roll over when asked, but she keeps her legs out straight and often manages to collect my legs on the way. If I'm not near the kitchen counter or close enough to some other well grounded object I'm likely to be felled like a tree that's just met a chainsaw. If I land on Cleo things get even more fraught. As I've mentioned before, Cleo believes her head should always be at a lower level than mine so if I fall to the floor she is galvanised into action to get her head under mine. This is somewhat counterproductive to my getting up off the floor. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Aslan and Cleo enjoying the air cooler duct directly above Cleo's head.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Aslan is inclined to wander over at times like this and, in typical Saint Bernard fashion, offer to help. These offers are accompanied by long strings of drool as he puts his face up close to mine to see if there is anything he can do in this situation. There isn't, but he always asks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The ferrets haven't been
outside in weeks. It's either a case of too hot or too much smoke from the various catastrophic bushfires raging through the east coast of Australia - or
both. The ferrets have their four tiered palace in the family room, filled with hammocks,
tunnels, lots of water and food and towelling sleeping bags these days
so inside in the cage isn't as bad as it sounds. They also get to socialise with the puppies and with me when I'm in the kitchen so life is interesting enough for them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Freya and Eris in their ferret palace.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Thankfully I don't have to make cooling down provisions for Edna The Echidna who has visited my garden four times that we know of. Cleo objects
strongly and barks her head off until I go outside and lock her and Aslan up
so the poor little spiky creature doesn't get a migraine. I have been
wondering why she keeps coming back to my yard - it couldn't be just to
destroy another area of my garden surely? Two days ago I discovered
that she's building a burrow along our house yard back fence. Graeme has
fortified it against the puppies, but that won't stop Cleo barking if
she notices Edna is at home. I can see many disturbed nights while Edna
is in residence. She has chosen a spot right near where large black ants gather around the Kurrajong tree collecting sap so she's well provided with food. </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Hopefully she will raise lots of little puggles
in her burrow. I now count her as part of the menagerie, despite Graeme's objections. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP76Ez1gpjPZ77iOJJf9C1HxvVPX9xO6Pk3YjVoXLcdZrPBKY6DYsof-_qvVrkbbaX0otviqIEqNO7d_XnUMwdx_FHWp4XtAr_S_hUdMIDF7vSFUSdzYaML89n-fAtFxue5IQaVT8lo7vk/s1600/Edna+The+Echidna%2527s+Den+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP76Ez1gpjPZ77iOJJf9C1HxvVPX9xO6Pk3YjVoXLcdZrPBKY6DYsof-_qvVrkbbaX0otviqIEqNO7d_XnUMwdx_FHWp4XtAr_S_hUdMIDF7vSFUSdzYaML89n-fAtFxue5IQaVT8lo7vk/s320/Edna+The+Echidna%2527s+Den+.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<i>Edna's new home along my garden's back fence. It's a work in progress at the moment but she's working away diligently and is should be finished soon.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, that's how I spend my summer days. Most of the menagerie seem to hold me responsible for whatever type of weather we are having. None of them like the heat and as it's my fault it's so hot, it is obviously up to me to see to each and every pet's needs cooling down wise. No wonder I feel exhausted at the end of a summer's day.</span></div>
Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3033303193182660558.post-49313793101904516182019-12-08T12:26:00.002+11:002019-12-08T12:28:16.021+11:00She's Back!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKKJff3pYRhcqfu5c0OeCGQ4pG9BKJn8OwN6I7ubFX1-1M8S1ViqDZYDiHXvUHct-IHeYk6bjjL3DULEujaqt8UanV-xxy0nMfj3O7vQGDOnyGdXdOxSw5U1EkGZo9D7fA-6HfHn5FpaX/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1136" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKKJff3pYRhcqfu5c0OeCGQ4pG9BKJn8OwN6I7ubFX1-1M8S1ViqDZYDiHXvUHct-IHeYk6bjjL3DULEujaqt8UanV-xxy0nMfj3O7vQGDOnyGdXdOxSw5U1EkGZo9D7fA-6HfHn5FpaX/s400/Untitled-1.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>This is the echidna's first visit. She's in the top right of the photo. That's a wire garden ornament in the bottom left.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif";">Our
echidna put in a late night appearance last night. This is her third
visit to my garden, but there are no new photos of her because she chose to
visit around 9.30 and I didn't have my phone with me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Cleo, who usually has a quick word or two to say to visiting kangaroos, was barking non-stop for quite a
while so I went out to investigate and found her and Aslan looking very intently at something in the very top corner of our backyard. Aslan looked a little embarrassed to be caught out harassing a little defenseless (if you didn't count the spikes - and both he and Cleo counted the spikes) creature. The poor little echidna, who most likely had a major headache after having Cleo's booming bark go off in her ear for a good solid ten minutes, had dug
herself into the very corner of our back yard. She had a large rock on
one side of the huge hole she'd dug, the corrugated iron fence on
another and Cleo barking at her on the third side of the triangle.
Aslan was acting as back up behind Cleo. He wasn't barking or trying to
get close to the pointy end of the echidna (which makes me think he has a good deal more intelligence than Cleo who was trying to find a way around those spikes), but he was there for moral
support. Why the echidna keeps coming back I don't know. Maybe she
keeps hoping I'll see the light and get rid of the puppies so she can make her home in our back yard. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I did suggest to Graeme that as the echidna could be considered a regular visitor now we should name her and adopt her as a new member of the menagerie, but not surprisingly, Graeme disagreed rather strongly. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Graeme got the spade and
dug out the rock so the echidna could leave via the small gap that made
between the two fences. I called the puppies to follow me with the intention of locking them up in the laundry for the night. Aslan came along quietly doing his usual follow from the front causing me to almost trip over him when he stopped from time to time to check I was still with him. It took a lot of
encouragement and finally threats to get Cleo to come with me. She
kept veering off in the direction of the echidna every time I took my
eyes off her. When caught heading the wrong way to the back door, Cleo tried to explain it was dark and she'd lost her way, but I was having none of that. I finally got both puppies onto the back porch and then
Aslan into the laundry, but Cleo said she wasn't going any further. She
thought if she looked innocent enough I'd believe that she intended to
stay put and wouldn't dream of going back to harass our spiky visitor.
Sadly for Cleo I'm not that gullible. I showered Aslan with liver flake
treats (their favourite treat in the entire world) and told him he was a
good boy while he sat on his bed in the laundry enjoying every morsel of liver treat offered to him. I called Cleo multiple
times and even showed her the bucket of treats, waving it right under her nose, but Cleo was struck with selective deafness. She knew she
couldn't make a break for the back corner of the yard while I was
outside, but she also knew if she put one foot in the laundry I'd close
the door and that would be the end of her defending the garden against
marauding echidnas.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZsAnn56MSbInmmm2ggi8nodu0jxJ9SY2fugeeHeZckhmJq31uq-suL192NoVzwcuWop4WXIcm8rL39hszsn9Dl3PDJYk5NsZgM8HH-VJ3-sMo3_uKxKA2BvykMzFWq9pseUh5deIhcgZ/s1600/20190911_072112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZsAnn56MSbInmmm2ggi8nodu0jxJ9SY2fugeeHeZckhmJq31uq-suL192NoVzwcuWop4WXIcm8rL39hszsn9Dl3PDJYk5NsZgM8HH-VJ3-sMo3_uKxKA2BvykMzFWq9pseUh5deIhcgZ/s400/20190911_072112.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><i>Our echidna's second visit. I'm grateful that she didn't dig herself into one of my gardens this time and only dug up a bit of dirt near the back fence.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Cleo and I have an
understanding that if she comes when I call her into the laundry she
gets liver treats if they are being handed out to Aslan, but if I have
to haul her into the laundry no liver treats will be forthcoming. It's been a while since the liver treats haven't worked. Cleo just can't seem to resist them. She did resist them this time though. It seems the lure of a night barking at the spiny side of an echidna far outweighed the delicious taste of liver treats. In the end I dragged Cleo into the laundry, making uncomplimentary comments on over grown dogs who can't obey a simple command. Aslan was given a last liver treat just to
rub it in with Cleo that she was missing out, and the laundry door was
shut for the night.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">While this tussle of wills between Cleo and me was taking place Graeme was still outside
making arrangements for the echidna's departure. He tried lifting it up
with the shovel but she had dug in well and truly, so all he could do
was leave her there. Echidnas have an amazing ability to hold onto the ground underneath them when predators (or well meaning farmers in Graeme's case) try to move them. It's like they are cemented in. Graeme wanted to take her down to the Possum
Paddock which is about a kilometre from our house. Just as an aside, the Possum Paddock is named that because when Graeme and Justin were cutting wood for our fuel stove, when we first moved here, Graeme cut a branch into fuel stove fire box lengths, only to find a few bits of fur on the chain saw after the last cut. He looked into to hollow branch to find two possums squashed up in there avoiding the blades. Graeme picked up that bit of branch and wedged it into a tree so the very-lucky-not-to-be-cut-by-the-blades possums could recover from their trauma. Now, back to the echidna - I wasn't in favour of her being moved to the Possum Paddock because I was
worried she might have a den of puggles (baby echidnas) somewhere near the house and it
would be too far for an echidna's little stumpy legs to walk back in a short time. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">This morning the echidna was gone. She's left a deep hole in the back corner of my garden, but for once no plants suffered from her visit. After Graeme checked to see if she was gone he let the puppies out and Cleo made a beeline for the back corner. She was very disappointed that her semi-regular sparring partner wasn't there to be barked at so she returned to the house deflated but hopeful there would be more opportunities in the future to finally defeat the pointy little creature. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Graeme filled in the hole and I now await the next visit from the newest member of the Spring Rock menagerie (I'm counting her as part of the gang even if Graeme isn't).</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMouRO-w_7GDIDjRKVL3X1AkhnHoDQm0vDwMhUSNcnDGqv4paeZwNceX-HJU7aM5SNxZSOQoeNr7hTAz-NM7mR8DdscvOTrkoTmpwDFlFrOclLTUizwPNviwenpoEOo-9oNAc9KbkxViFa/s1600/20190619_143213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMouRO-w_7GDIDjRKVL3X1AkhnHoDQm0vDwMhUSNcnDGqv4paeZwNceX-HJU7aM5SNxZSOQoeNr7hTAz-NM7mR8DdscvOTrkoTmpwDFlFrOclLTUizwPNviwenpoEOo-9oNAc9KbkxViFa/s320/20190619_143213.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i> This photo was taken after the echidna's first visit when I carried her over to a paddock behind our shearing shed. She seemed to enjoy the ride, not struggling, but lifting her head from time to time to admire the elevated view.</i></span></div>
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Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127632250585306296noreply@blogger.com1