Life At Spring Rock

The Very First Time I Dyed and Broke the Four Minute Mile.

2012-01-24T08:52:00.000+11:00

I’ve been reading a great new blog http://fibrefanatic.wordpress.com and promised Nadie that I’d send her this story. After I sent it I thought the rest of you might like to read it too.

This instalment contains no animals (unless you count the passing mention of my Aasta, my Old English Sheepdog from years ago and my comeback sheep, Tiffany who produced the wool). So here is the animal free zone story of how I learned to dye and break the one minute mile in the process.

About 35 years ago I bought an Old English Sheepdog. She needed something to herd (she tried magpies but they kept flying off) so we bought a sheep from a backyard in Penrith when we were out on a drive one day. Every year Tiffany needed to be shorn and her wool started to accumulate. With no thoughts of stockpiling it and becoming wool barons, I learned to spin – basically in self defence. Tiffany produced kilos of wool every year and we lived in a very small house.

Learning to spin was fraught with dangers not previously considered. Of course, like everyone else the first thing I did was closely examine the spinning wheel for the sharp object that pricked Sleeping Beauty’s finger and put her to sleep for 100 years. While there were times in my life with a twelve month old baby girl that a long sleep was very tempting the thoughts of what she’d accomplish left unsupervised was a nightmare all by itself. Just for the record, I’ve never met a spinning wheel with a finger pricking sharp piece attached to it. I can only assume that Sleeping Beauty was a real klutz.

Anyway, back to my spinning lessons. I lived on an acre at the bottom of a deserted street miles from the little village of Hill Top in the Southern Highlands and couldn’t drive so if I wanted to learn anything I had to borrow books from the library when Graeme drove me to Bowral each week and teach myself. Bec, added another hurdle to learning to spin because she thought the spinning wheel just perfect for poking pudgy fingers in to see what happened. I ended up, book on my lap, safely enclosed in Bec’s playpen while she free ranged around the loungeroom with her toys, perfecting my spinning.

Once I could produce a reasonable skein of yarn I taught Graeme's Aunt Rae to spin (and then she took herself off to TAFE and is now a master spinner and master weaver!) Rae lived up at Eungai (far north coast of NSW) and we used to visit for a couple of weeks each year. During our visits Rae and I would usually try out new crafts together (believe it or not, Rae never wanted to try quilting!).

The holiday where I taught Rae to spin she took to it like a duck to water. Rae took full advantage of my spinning wheel being in residence and we even took in on picnics with us so we could keep spinning while Graeme, his Uncle Robert and our kids (we had two by now) could enjoy themselves in the canoe. With quite a few skeins produced, we decided to have a go at natural dying the skeins and some fleece. Of course I had a few books on the subject and we set about getting all our supplies together. We needed a range of mordants to experiment with the various colours they would produce with the gum leaves, barks, lichens etc that we’d gathered, so we headed off to Macksville (nearest largish town to Eungai) to get the equipment and mordants we needed.

Rae went to the co-op for the equipment and I was put on chemist detail. I was a bit of a hippy in my youth, flowered jeans, long hair, head band around the forehead, flowing cheesecloth tops etc. (I don't know if this had anything to do with the next part of my story, but it may have contributed.) I asked the girl behind the counter to sell me some chemicals (I can't remember the actual chemicals now, but I asked for each by name). The girl gave me a long look and asked what I wanted these chemicals for. Without thinking it through (see I was just as scatterbrained in my youth) I said in my most confident artisan's voice, "Dying".

She then gave me a scared look, put her hands up as if to calm a wild animal and said, "Just wait here, I'll get the chemist." She then disappeared out the back, where I could hear a whispered conversation taking place. The chemist came out, the girl pointed to me and he headed in my direction. He gave me a professionally concerned look and asked what I wanted these chemicals for.

Once again I said, "Dying" (the penny still hadn't dropped with me). The look on the chemist's face finally penetrated my little brain that was overflowing with artistic plans and I quickly said, "Dying wool not me!!!). The chemist looked sceptical at first but I managed to convince him that I really had a load of wool at home and wanted to boiled it up with leaves and lichen and needed the chemicals to help set the colours. He agreed to sell me the chemicals, but I couldn't get him to sell me the quantities I actually wanted. He rationed them out very sparingly. I thanked him in a chastened voice and slunk out of the shop.

Rae and I decided not to push our luck by sending Rae in to get some more. We'd just use what we were given. We returned to the farm and set up our dying workshop in the kitchen. The kitchen took on the appearance of a very dedicated witch’s kitchen with leaves, lichens, ferns and flowers scatted in piles on the table and benches. The chemicals were kept over on a separate counter and treated with a very large amount of respect. We were quite twitchy by now about using these mordants. To add to the witch’s kitchen look, Rae had a fuel stove and used it whenever possible because it also heated the house's hot water. Rae put the pot on the stove and carefully added the mordant while I stood well back in case it jumped off the measuring spoon and attacked.

All was quiet as the water heated on the stove. A few seconds later a very loud POP! sound erupted from the stove. Without even looking at each other, Rae and I hightailed it out of the house, banging the screen door closed as we passed and dived off the back veranda and stood out in the garden almost hugging each other in fright. We left that kitchen so quickly I’m sure we must have broken the sound barrier. Graeme, Robert, Bec and Josh sat out there where they’d been quietly chatting about farming and life in general, but now staring at us with puzzled expressions on their face. The pop hadn’t even been loud enough for them to hear it on the back porch. It suddenly occurred to me that these chemicals were poisonous, not explosive. I relayed my epiphany to Rae who nodded her head and we both laughed nervously in relief.

Even with this comforting knowledge, we were reluctant to go back to the kitchen, but we gathered our courage (what little there was left of it) and bravely (???) re-entered the kitchen. The popping sound had been made by a little bit of water boiling between the base of the pot and the top of the stove and having no where to escape. Thankfully all such water had evaporated by the time we ventured back into the kitchen.

We spent the rest of the day creating beautiful muted colours in skeins and fleece and decided that while natural dying could be a very scary experience it was worth it. I should have taken the wool back to the chemist to show 1. I was still alive and 2. I’d been telling the truth, but it never occurred to me at the time.

Happy Christmas

2011-12-25T06:53:00.001+11:00

Ambrosia

Nefertiti

Jocie

Horton

Tristan

Billy

We hope you all have a wonderful Christmas filled with love, family (both the two and four legged styles) and lots and lots of presents.

From,
Rosemary & The Menagerie

Billy's Advice

2011-11-24T07:16:00.002+11:00

I've had a few friends feeling under the weather lately. Billy likes to send them a get well message and this advice. So for anyone out there feeling less than 100% here is Billy's message for you.

Ears Are Highly Overrated Anyway.

2011-11-05T08:32:00.000+11:00

I was chatting with a friend a few days ago and somehow the conversation turned towards my cat Sapphire. I can't remember how we got there, but it wasn't a surprise. A lot of my conversations with people end up with me telling them something strange about one or more of my pets. There's just so much material from which to choose! Anyway, after telling her all about Sapphire's adventures all those years ago I thought I'd share it with all of you too.

I first met Sapphire in 1973 when a sneaky friend of mine presented her to me as a wedding present. My friend was a Mothers' Helper as they were called back then (I don't know what the term is today), and looked after three children and did various jobs to help the working mum cope. The working mum had come across this batch of dumped kittens and brought them back to her flat. Once the kittens began to grow she realised her decision hadn't been the best one she could have made and handed the job of finding homes for them over to my friend, with the addendum that any kittens left over at the end of the week would be "disposed of". That's all it took for me to accept my wedding present - the term "disposed of" sends chills up my spine. Graeme was a little less than thrilled. Realisation of his future hadn't quite hit him in the face at this time, but he was starting to suspect that I had a unique ability to acquire pets without actively trying to do so and he was worried.

While I was knee deep in wedding preparations I had sent Graeme out to find rental accommodation we could afford and that allowed me to keep a cat. He found such a flat and handed over the deposit and signed the lease. When I sent Graeme on this mission I had one cat that was coming to live with us (Topaz). The rest of my menagerie were rather ancient and I didn't want to disturb their retirement with a big move. They would live out the rest of their lives at my mother's house where they had always been. I told Graeme that an extra cat wouldn't make much difference and everything was fine. In the end we moved in with three kittens, Topaz the tortoiseshell, Sapphire the white cat with a few dabs of grey fur, and Ophelia a neurotic black and white cat.

We lived in the flat for two years with me acquiring more pets along the way. You can read about all my extra pets here The cats lived in the flat nearly all the time venturing outside only occasionally. We then moved to an acre near Mittagong and the cats learned to go outside more often and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. Unfortunately for Sapphire sunshine wasn't a good idea. Every summer her white ears and pink nose would get sunburned and after a few years of this she ended up with some skin damage. We took her to the vet and he said it was either a case of keeping her inside at all times or tattooing her ears and nose with a dark ink to proved protection from the sun. We chose the tattooing option so Sapphire could continue to enjoy her new outdoor access. We left her there overnight and made arrangements to pick her up the next day.

The vet rang before we headed off the next day to say that Sapphire had had a bad reaction to the dye and her face had swollen up drastically. He had her on a drip and needed to keep her in until the swelling went down. I agreed and went into worry mode - a common mode for me with the menagerie and later my children. We visited Sapphire that afternoon and she was a sorry sight with her dark, scabby ears and nose on a face so swelled up she looked grotesque. It was hard to believe we'd always considered Sapphire the beauty of the family. The swelling was so bad she could barely open her mouth to complain about the treatment she was receiving and the fact that she was now tattooed and didnt' get to choose the design.

After a few days the swelling went down, Sapphire was able to voice her disapproval of the whole incident again in loud meows. She came home and told her troubles to the three other cats, settled down for a good sleep and continued healing. The scabs on her ears and nose where still there but the vet said this was normal and the scabs would drop off in a few days. He was right. The only thing he didn't mention was that her ears and a small part of her nose would drop off too!

We came home from a day out to find Sapphire with one ear missing and the other tip hanging at a drunken angle over her eye. I rang the vet to seek advice on the catastrophe (excuse the pun - I couldn't resist). He was less than impressed with the phone call. He told me that he'd spent the day performing Cesarean operations on a herd of small heifers where a huge bull had got into their paddock nine moths previously and he wasn't in the mood for jokes. I asked him why I would possibly think it was funny to ring him and tell him my cat's ear had fallen off. I was serious. The vet heaved a sigh and told us to bring Sapphire in straight away. I think he thought maybe the scab had come off and we were confused or something.

We arrived at the vet's carrying a ticked off cat and presented her for his inspection. There it was in all it's glory - an earlessearless on both sides. He apologised profusely and said he'd never seen anything like this before. He continued to play with the ear tip while he talked to us, running it through his fingers, giving it a little flip and catching it. I had to concentrate on what he was saying because I found his absent minded treatment of Sapphires ear very off putting in a ghoulish sort of way. I pointed out that the blood coming from Sapphire's ear where he'd pulled the ear off was a thick, gunky blue. He had a closer look and agreed. Sapphire once again spent the night at the vet's while he tried to figure out what to do next. In the end she came home the next day in perfect health but without ears and a small part of her nose.

Later when I examined Sapphire closely I saw that her skin had turned blue under her white fur. She was darkest blue on her face with the colour fading the further down her body you moved. She now had what looked like Kohl pencil eyes with the skin around them no longer the normal, cat approved pink, but now a dark indigo - very exotic looking. The dye ink had got into her blood stream and stained her skin along the way. How she survived with that much ink in her blood we'll never know but survive she did.

Years went buy and Sapphire lived a long and happy life. She remained blue (and of course earless) and just a few years later, while still a young cat, went blind. Whether the dye had anything to do with that I don't know, but I suspect it did. That was when I gave up rearranging furniture in the house. I used to rearrange the furniture every few months just for a different look. The first time I did that after blindness struck our Sapphire she kept ricocheting off the furniture. She expected everything to be just where she'd left it the day before and when it wasn't she bumped into it. She was often found in a corner of the room meowing plaintively that she didn't know where she was anymore - everything was strange. Rather than have Sapphire resemble a ball bearing in a pinball machine for ever more, I gave up on my decorating pretensions and stopped moving things about.

Sapphire lived until the ripe old age of 18. She remained the boss of the cats and most of the dogs even after losing her sight, and led a happy normal life. She did attract a lot of notice when visitors met the blue skinned, earless cat for the first time. They'd ask what happened and I'd tell Sapphire's story once again. One time the question was asked Graeme's brother piped in quickly answering the new visitor's question of what happened to Sapphire's ears with "They were delicious!" The visitor took a few horrified steps back and I quickly intervened with the true story.

One unexpected outcome from Sapphires brush with tattoo ink was that the vet never charged us full price for anything again. He came out to help with my horse Christie one time when she had colic. After hours of working on her and getting her back to normal, he was packing up his gear. Sapphire spotted him and wandered over to say, "No hard feelings," and pass the time of day with her medical practitioner. She rubbed up against him preparatory to opening the conversation and the vet looked down, shuddered and said, "That cat still haunts me." He proceeded to charge just for the medications used, not his time or travelling. I explained that we didn't blame him for Sapphire's new look, but he refused to take a cent more. For a few years there we had the cheapest vet bills we'd ever had. Sapphire smiled a smug smile when I mentioned this to Graeme and I could almost see her saying, "You're welcome."

Showering With A Friend.

2011-09-22T08:09:00.001+10:00

This is my view while having a shower each day.

I have had occasion to write about the ordeals related to my personal hygiene activities before. I've mentioned showering with a duck (on purpose but reluctantly), almost getting a bath with Billy (definitely not on purpose and very reluctantly!). I have also showered with ferrets unintentionally - they just muscled in on my shower one day and passed rude comments about my weight while paddling around in the water on the shower floor. I've also written about the trials and tribulations of using our toilet here especially during the early hours of the morning. This is mostly due to Billy's presence in the laundry and his determination to become one with the toilet pedestal. Now showering has once again become fraught with potential bodily harm.

When they were kittens Ambrosia and Nefertiti were much like toddlers. They wouldn't let me out of their sight and followed me everywhere I went to see what new and exciting activity I was about to embark on. In their efforts to keep tabs on me at that time in their lives, Ambrosia and Nefertiti both wandered into the shower at various times. That's the disadvantage of a shower curtain compared to a glass screen. Nefertiti visited just once, found the falling water decidedly not to her taste and has remained on the outside of the shower curtain ever since. Ambrosia, on the other hand, visited a few times passing the time of day with me while batting at the falling water before deciding that nothing exciting was going on in there. She's not adverse to a bit of water to play with but in her opinion I took up far too much of the shower recess to allow for free access to the water, so she stopped visiting - much to my delight.

Now, Ambrosia has rediscovered where I disappear to each morning and has decided to join the party. First she peeks behind the shower curtain to make sure it's me in there and not Graeme. I don't know if Graeme has had words with her on the subject of disturbing his shower, or she just prefers to visit with me alone, but when she finds it's me in there, she springs up onto the shower wall and sits looking at me for a little while. While she is considering the sight of me naked and dripping wet I begin to worry - not because I have body image issues, but because I value my skin in one piece. All enjoyment of the shower has now disappeared and I have to keep a wary eye on the Bengal above my head. If Ambrosia jumps up there before I have washed my hair I am in real danger of getting soap in my eyes as I try to lather up and keep an eye on her at the same time. Then she gets the brilliant idea that now would be a good time to ask for a pat or a tummy rub. She indicates her readiness by flipping over on the timber wall top and attempting to display the tummy area needing attention. I am quick to comply so that her contortions are kept to a minimum, trying to get the pat in before she actually flips on her back because you may remember that Ambrosia has a terrible sense of balance (actually she has no sense of balance to speak of at all) so my showers are now a very exciting activity. When Ambrosia flips on her back on a narrow surface she invariably ends up on the floor with a confused look on her face. The fact that my body stands between Ambrosia's fall and the floor is painfully obvious to me. An excitement I could do without. Ambrosia doesn't seem to mind my wet hands. As I've said before she doesn't mind water at all. Ambrosia, as you can see in the photo, doesn't consider her balance challenged nature and performs all sorts of contortions in an effort to receive a pat or two while I'm otherwise occupied. Heaven help me if I ignore her and she feels obligated to try harder!!! I'm just lucky that the man who built this house felt the need for a very wide top to the shower wall. I doubt he had shower visiting cats in mind when he chose that bit of timber for the top, but I bless him every morning.

I'm not comfortable excluding her from the bathroom while I'm in there. The litter tray lives in the bathroom and Ambrosia wouldn't be above finding somewhere else to use instead if she was denied access, even if it was just to get even for closing the door on her. So it's access all areas, or at least access the bathroom for Ambrosia at all times.

Well, I'm off to have my shower now. Let's all keep our fingers crossed that Ambrosia continues to remain on top of the shower and not come flying through the air towards my very vulnerable body.

How To Tell When Your Ferret Is Getting Old

2011-08-28T07:54:00.000+10:00

Miette when she was a little old ferret.

I usually have at least one elderly ferret and two younger ones amongst the Spring Rock Menagerie. When one of an older pair of ferrets sadly dies I contact the Ferret Welfare Association of New South Wales and put in an emergency request for two young rescued ferrets. After spending its life with a friend, I find that older ferrets lose interest in going on with life without another ferret to play and share nefarious deeds with. Bringing in two younger ferrets has always renewed their interest in life and they get over the loss of their friend while making new friends. Ferrets only live for a very short time - six or seven years - far to short a time for such beautiful little creatures. So over the years I'd had plenty of opportunity to study the aging habits of ferrets.

Horton has begun showing signs of old age and while giving him a cuddle a few days ago I stopped and considered the signs of aging in a ferret. They aren't quite the same as for dogs and cats although the greying around the muzzle and eyes often happens. Horton is a white ferret so there's no greying to see. He is showing his age in other, peculiar to ferrets ways.

1. Old ferrets like to have long cuddles. By long cuddles I mean all of a few minutes, but in the life of a busy ferret that is a very long time. Young ferrets don't have time for anything but a quick cuddle and even then they are constantly on the move climbing up your chest to sit on one shoulder and then the other while looking for more adventure. You have to get your pats and cuddles in as quickly as possible because young ferrets have places to be and thimbles to steal. Old ferrets stop what they are doing, walk over to your feet and gaze up with that look that says, "Cuddle please." They then snuggle in your arms for a few minutes while lapping up the pats and attention. To tell the truth I think that it's a face saving strategy so the younger ferrets don't realise the old ferret has run out of puff. "You lot go on without me for a while," the older ferret says. "I feel the strange need to cuddle with my human for a bit." Once the old ferret has caught its breath and recharged its batteries it will start to climb down to rejoin the mayhem on the floor.

2. Old ferrets get careless about hiding their stash. Young ferrets will stash anything they can get their mouths around and seek out a well hidden, secret hiding place. As soon as they pick up the new treasure they get a shifty look on their face, slink low to the ground in an effort to become invisible and head for their wherever they have hidden their stash. Ferrets hide their stash from both other ferrets and humans. This hiding place is usually set up early in life and grows over time unless discovered by the humans and cleaned out. Treasures include a diverse range of items including, but not limited to cotton reels (unravelling of course), grapes, banana skins, orange skins, thimbles, small items of clothing such as socks left on the floor, small toys and much, much more. It's fair to say if they can pick it up it's a ferret treasure. Old ferrets don't lose interest in amassing treasure, they still get the shifty look and slink low to the ground once they've picked up their new treasure but they just find the trips back and forward to their old hiding place rather onerous. Horton has begun to stash his treasures on the lounge room carpet in full view of everyone. He's always miffed when I retrieve whatever he's appropriated of mine from his stash or the other ferrets steal his grapes or fruit peels. to place in their stash.

3. Older ferrets make me think twice about sliding them across the kitchen floor. Ferrets both young and old love this game. I sit on the kitchen vinyl floor and a ferret will present itself to me for the game. I lay the ferret on its side and give a push to send the ferret zooming across the floor. once the slide comes to an end the ferret will right itself and scamper back to me for a repeat performance. Soon there is a line up of ferrets all wanting to join in the fun. These days when Horton presents himself I worry about old bones and only give him a small push. Horton just can't figure out why he doesn't travel as fast and as far as he used to.

4. Old ferrets often find younger ferrets very trying. Just like the older generation of any species, older ferrets find the fun and games of younger ferrets too much to take at times. Don't get me wrong, 90% of the time the older ferret is right there in the middle of the ferret chaos enjoying every minute, but occasionally the boisterousness of the younger generation just gets to be too much. Older ferrets then either have shrill words to say on the matter or decide it's time for one of those cuddles mentioned earlier. Younger ferrets don't know what's happened when told off by an elderly ferret. After all they were just being normal active ferrets. I can almost see them shrug their shoulders before getting back to the game while the older ferret removes itself from the game to go commune with its human.

So you see, Horton is showing all these classic signs of ferret aging. He's still fit and healthy and enjoying life to the full in his own old ferret way. Jocie will be the next one to start slowing down, but she assures me she has many young years ahead of her.

That's the thing about a ferret getting old. It seems to sneak up on them when they least expect it and suddenly the need for a long cuddle hits them. It's the downward slide to old age from there.

Learning At The Paws Of The Master

2011-07-28T07:09:00.000+10:00

"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.

This story is from the archives. The mouse plague here is almost over thank goodness and I was thinking that if Mum Puss had been alive it would have been over a lot sooner.

********

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 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 if it kills one of us!

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 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, the dumbest student Mum-Puss has ever encountered is me!

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.

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 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.

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” one - the “come out and share this wonderful treat I’ve caught just for you” one. 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 mortuary. 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.

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 force his way though glass by continually throwing his body at it, to hunt birds 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.

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 turned on 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.

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 and even 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.

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.

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.

Just when she was beginning to wonder if the second of these options was the 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.

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.

Love Is A Very Soggy Thing

2011-06-17T06:37:00.002+10:00

Life is once again a bit fraught here at Spring Rock thanks to bad behaviour from the largest member of the menagerie. Billy has fallen in love with our aged kelpie Juno. While I'm the first to admit that Juno is a beautiful lady, Juno is 13 years old and has been a resident of Spring Rock since her surprise birth back in 1998 - far longer than Billy, but for some reason he's just discovered how beautiful she is. He likes to lie down next to her with his big head on her back. a soppy look on his face and strings of drool hanging down either side of his mouth. Juno is permanently soggy and would just like Billy to go away. It's a platonic love (Juno was spayed when she was a much younger kelpie), but a soggy one.

Juno now has a huge bald spot on her rump. Billy for some reason known only to himself likes to spend his spare time licking her and as his head is usually resting on her rump, that's the spot that always gets licked. He's going to get a hairball! I sprayed Juno with citronella, because dogs hate the smell of it, and at first Billy was highly offended that the object of his love had taken to wearing such a noxious perfume and worshiped her from afar - well a few feet away anyway. But it's true love and he rose above the smell and returned to worshiping her up close. Billy still rests his big head on her back whenever he can but at least the licking seems to have stopped. We play tag team time out in the laundry now to keep them separated and give Juno a bit of peace. Billy spends some time in there (complaining loudly all the time) and when I think he needs a bit of a walk and drink etc I let him out, grab Juno (if I can - she's very sprightly for an old girl) and put her in the laundry so she can continue to have peace and quiet, St Bernard free. A bit of cat kibble and Juno's world is perfect - a soft bed, her favourite food and most importantly no overgrown love lorn Billy.

Billy isn't the only one causing problems at Spring Rock. As I've mentioned before, Ambrosia the Bengal cat also gets time out, but in the bathroom. She has become addicted to rushing out the back door whenever she can, often nearly bowling me over in her attempts to get outside. You see outside is where the mouse plague is. Ambrosia has had quite a bit of success at catching mice on the back porch lately. Sadly she has had barely any success at dispatching the caught mice. Ambrosia tends to just play with them until they can escape and start life anew in another area of the backyard. I've had to get involved and take the mice off her. I can't dispatch them either so I put them in a plastic jug with a few bits of cat kibble to eat while they wait for Graeme to come and deal with them. Graeme and I have had words about the cat kibble. I've told him I feel guilty enough about condemning the poor little creature to death in the first place, at least it can await execution with a last meal. Graeme just shook his head and recognised defeat when he saw it.

But back to Ambrosia. Her reason for time out is simple. Ambrosia objects to being on the inside of the shut back door. The mice are waiting for her to come and play with them outside and she can see them from her almost permanent perch on the family room window. The mice like to live dangerously and play right outside the window on the boot rack. This of course winds Ambrosia up into a frenzy of mice catching zeal. When that back door thwarts her attempts to get out there amongst the mouse plague Ambrosia complains and complains loudly as only a Bengal can. She follows me around the house voicing her opinions on women who keep cats with a mission locked in the house. When told to keep quiet she simply yells some more. Occasionally things get to be just too much for both of us and Ambrosia is put in time out in the bathroom. I'd like to say that when she comes out she's a chastened cat who goes about her business quietly, but that would be a bald faced lie so I won't. It's not long before Ambrosia finds herself once again behind a second closed door - the bathroom door.

Thus I fill my winter days.

Billy has just released from the laundry and looking for Juno.

A Visitor

2011-05-21T10:17:00.001+10:00

We are in the throws of a mouse plague in the Riverina. Let me tell you it is not pleasant. Being the softy that I am I usually rescue any mouse I find and let it go in the paddocks away from the house so it can live a full and happy life. With the millions of mice in residence on Spring Rock, causing damage everywhere and eating the seeds as soon as Graeme plants the crops, I can hardly continue with my mouse catch and release practises. Tristan, our large orange cat, has had his fill of mice and now basically ignores the hordes around the house yard and its environs. Ambrosia and Neferiti have both caught their first mice recently and are keen to repeat the exciting event, but thankfully few mice have found their way inside the house. They are in the ceiling and wall cavities though and their constant scuffling are drivng the girls crazy. They rush around the room looking ceilingward, trying to figure out how to breach the walls and get to those mice! So added to the mouse plague we can now include crazy cats, bouncing off walls, sometimes literally. Life here is fraught at the moment.

With the increasing mouse population Spring Rock is now playing host to a large variety of birds of prey. Hawks, falcons, kites, kestrels and even an eagle are all seen hovering over the paddocks in search of a small, furry meal.

The mice, who have a nose for an easy feed, have also invaded the chook pen, the aviary and the sheds and this has led to the new visitor we have here. For weeks I just refered to the beautiful bird as a hawk, but I have finally identified the "hawk" who visits the galahs and pigeon and causes such terror in their little feathered breasts, as a Spotted Harrier. I used my Readers' Digest Complete Book of Australian Birds and my neighbour's input (she worked for the Australian Museum recording bird song and identifying the birds). He (or she but with the beautiful plumage I'm inclined to think he) still visits the aviary almost daily. He lands on the wire on the roof and strikes a pose, attempting to look ferocious and gives the inmates of the aviary the evil eye. There really is no need for him to go to all that effort. Just his presence on the roof is enough to cause my birds to hunker down, assume the stuffed frog look and try to disappear into the scenery. I either tap on the kitchen window to let the harrier know that he has been spotted (no pun intended, but it was a good one wasn't it?) and his presence in not appreciated, or if all else fails, I go out to the aviary to tell him in person. I don't get very far before he realises I'm on my way and he quickly flies off for the trees close by. He often returns a few more times in the hope that I'll either change my mind and open the door to his tasty snacks or at least leave him alone. When he is convinced that neither will happen he disappears for thd day. This is the signal for my three birds to go balistic. All the pent up panic is now released to the sounds of screeching, scolding and mad wing flapping. I usually manage to calm them down with a few gentle words, some tasty treat and the assurance that the harrier will never find a way in to their cage.

Lately the harrier has discovered a much easier meal to get is mice and that the best mouse catching site is the lambing shed. He is doing his bit to end the horrible mouse plague by himself. I just wish he'd bring some friends along.

We are still feeding our baby lambs and keeping them in the lambing shed so we don't have to trek the paddocks to find them. We often meet the harrier when we are feeding the lambs. I can just hear the harrier saying, "Are these humans everywhere?" To say he is not happy to see us is an understatement. At the first sight of us the Harrier panics and, even though we are no-where near him and doing our best to ignore him (it's a huge shed), he ends up flying up to the skylights, banging against the fibreglass and finally hanging upside down on a wire in the roof trying to look dead. The first time he did it he convinced me! Graeme went over to investigate and the bird took off, so now we just nod in his direction and let him get on with his dead bird impersonation. Sometimes he is happy to stay there, batlike, for the duration, but more often he waits until we are fully occupied with feeding the lambs and quietly disappears.

So the state of the nation at Spring Rock is:
1 husband in charge of dispatching any poor mouse caught by the cats,
1 wife who is emotionally incapable of killing anything and feels guilty when she hands a live mouse over to husband,
3 dogs who ignore mice completly but will chase cats who are chasing mice,
2 inexperienced cats eager to catch mice but not dispatch them,
1 experienced cat who is all moused out,
3 birds who are too traumatised by the harrier's visits to do anything about the mice,
4 ferrets who have killed any mouse invading their cage,
12 chooks and 2 roosters who are all moused out as well,
14 bottle lambs in residence sharing their shed with countless mice,
1 overworked harrier who wastes too much time eyeing off the birds when his time could be better spent in the mouse (I mean lamb) shed and millions and millions of mice to be controlled by the very few Spring Rock residence who can dispatch mice.

It looks to me like we should be breeding ferrets and letting them run free around the house and sheds. I might broach this subject with Graeme later today. What do you think?

A Spotted Harrier doing its best to look ferocious.

Update On The Patient.

2011-04-25T07:17:00.000+10:00

Billy would like to thank everyone who sent him get well messages and kind thoughts. He is finally feeling a lot better. Last night he ate two and a half servings of his kibble for dinner - the first meal of dry food he's eaten since he took ill. He is outside eating another serving of kibble for breakfast as I write and tonight I'll offer him tinned dog food instead of cat food.

Yesterday things started looking up when Billy noticed I was holding his grooming comb. He bustled out to the porch from his sick room (the laundry) and took up his "groom me" stance. He stayed there enjoying the combing until my arm got tired and I called a halt. He looked disappointed that it was over and returned to his sick bed, but it was a definite improvement.

Things looked grim for Billy's and my love affair for a while. While Graeme and I were in Melbourne my neighbour came over twice a day to check on Billy and spoil him a bit. I had asked her if she could check him once a day and see if he would eat something. I only asked for once a day because my neighbour lives about a 15 minute drive and six closed gates away, but she loves Billy and made the effort to check him more often. She's a wonderful woman. Billy was much happier staying home with my neighbour checking on him than he would have been in a cage at the vet's. On her first visit she brought over some steak rissoles to see if she could tempt him, and tempt him she did. Billy scoffed the lot, one at a time out of her hand and looked for more. My friend had to have a complete wash down after the event, but she said she didn't mind, she was just glad he ate something. Billy refused all offers of tinned cat food in the hope that more rissoles would appear. I didn't leave his tablets out for her to give him because Billy resisted taking those tablets quite strenuously and my neighbour is nearly 80 years old. When I got home the tablet insertion into Billy resumed and only tinned cat food was available. I would have bought him rissoles or whatever his little heart desired but it was the Easter weekend and all shops were shut. Billy made it perfectly clear he didn't love me anymore. Every time I entered the laundry he'd duck his head or turn his face away. When I offered him tinned cat food (his former favourite food) Billy clearly said that he wanted my neighbour back as his nurse, and if she brought more rissoles so much the better. She knew how to treat a sick fellow he said, none of this forcing nasty tasting white things down his throat; just kind words and tasty treats. Now that he's had the last of his tablets we are back to our love fest with each other again.

I was really worried when I wrote last week about Billy being ill. I thought I was going to lose him. He was so sick and looked close to death's door. It's taken quite a while for the big fellow to recover and the vet still doesn't know what the problem was. He feels that the huge mouth ulcer and the nose bleeds were symptoms rather than causes. I'm just grateful that Billy is now feeling that life is good once again.

I don't imagine it will be long before Billy makes his way down to the ferret cage to resume exchanging insults with The Gang Of Four. I think they've missed him too.

Billy Is Sick

2011-04-19T08:51:00.002+10:00

Billy is sick. He isn't interested in tummy rubs, being brushed, having his bib put on and rushing inside or even exchanging insults with the ferrets. Billy is very sick. He just lies on the laundry floor and lets the Kelpies steal his food.

Last night we made an emergency after hours visit to the vet. Billy had been lethargic all day and didn't eat his dog kibble breakfast. When I fed him tinned food for dinner tried to eat it but jumped back in obvious pain when he tried. I investigated and discovered blood in his mouth. Billy is a very sick little boy. At first the vet thought he had rat bait poisoning because of the bleeding from his nose and mouth and he has very yucky looking eyes as well as taking lethargy to a new level. We have lots of rat baits out at the moment as Spring Rock is in the grip of a mouse plague. The vet says they have been run off their feet with rat bait poisoned pets, but the blood clotting test (the definitive test for rat bait poisoning) proved negative so it's not rat bait poisoning. I told the vet all along that we'd be very surprised if it was because we have made sure none of our pets can get at any of the baits. The thought was he may have caught a mouse that had eaten some, but as I said rat bait is not the problem.

The vet gave Billy a thorough check up and found nothing amiss aside from the fact that Billy just lay there and let the vet poke and prod him all over. He says Billy is a perfect specimen of an older St Bernard, but Billy and I already knew that. We weighed him and he weighed in at 68kilos so he's a good weight for his breed. The fact that we actually got Billy on the scales shows just how sick he is. Every time we've taken him to the vet he has refused point blank to get on the silver platform. Estimates of his weight have always been taken and medication worked out from there. It only took two tries last night and Billy's true weight was finally revealed. He's not dehydrated, his tummy and other vital organs all feel healthy according the the vet and he's not even running much of a temperature.

Billy just lay on the floor and gave me a long suffering look while all this was going on. Billy's examinations always take place on the floor because no-one wants to lift him onto the tiny metal table to save crawling around the floor. He didn't try and make friends with the vet, or tell all our family secrets or any of his usual visit to the vet behaviour. He even let the vet, a total stranger, lift his paws, open his mouth and look inside, generally man handle him for ages and poke needles in various parts of his anatomy. The only objection he made, and that was a very feeble one, was when the vet took Billy's temperature and I think Billy's indignation was very justified. The vet found a large bleeding ulcer in the front of his mouth but no reason for it - all his teeth are fine. There seemed to be no explanation for the bleeding nose or yucky eyes either.

At the moment Billy has been given, to quote the vet, "a massive dose of antibiotics and a big dose of anti-inflamatories". He is to have two doses of the strongest antibiotics the vet has twice a day. The vet said if Billy wasn't better today he will be spending our trip to Melbourne at the vet's so an eye can be kept on him and he can be given his tablets for those two days.

It's all a mystery at the moment and I'm very worried about him. If he doesn't improve the vet wants to do a series of blood tests to see if something shows up. Graeme is starting to mentally add up the bill. I pointed out that Billy is worth it. Graeme said, he supposed Billy was a fixture (his way of saying we would pay what we had to). I pointed out he was more than a fixture, Billy holds a very large place in my heart.

Billy seems to feel a bit better this morning. He's still very sick, but he ate the food I spoon fed him and looked a bit more interested in life. I have just arranged with my neighbour for her to babysit Billy for the two days we're away. I thought Billy would have to go back to the vet's just to be given his tablets and fed soft food, but my neighbour, wonderful woman that she is, is going to keep Billy in a pen in the wool shed where it's quiet and her Kelpies won't object to Billy's presence on the farm. She will feed Billy spoonfuls of food night and morning and slip his tablets in his food. Billy loves my neighbour and she is very fond of him too, so it will be a lot better for Billy than staying in a cage at the vet's. Whether it's a lot better for my neighbour or not I don't want to dwell on at the moment. It's enough to say I'll be buying her a BIG thank you present for her kindness.

I am not going to enjoy my trip to Melbourne very much if Billy's not anybetter before we leave. Graeme is taking me to the Melbourne Museum to see the Tutankhamen exhibition for our anniversary on Thursday. The hotel and tickets have been paid for for weeks now. What with seven bottle fed lambs we are dropping off for my daughter in law to feed, cats to incarcerate in the house because of the rat baits and now Billy being ill, I know I'm just going to worry the whole time - especially about a big, sooky dog back at Spring Rock.

I Have To Wonder

2011-04-01T08:14:00.001+11:00

Before I start I just want to say to my friend Jane that I know you want photos. I'm not a person who thinks of photos so all the events below have gone unphotographed and some are just impossible to photograph. If I manage to have my camera and a pet behaving strangely in the near future I promise to add a photo or two to this blog at a future date.

********************************************************************************

There are times when the behaviour of the Spring Rock menagerie cause me to sit and wonder. Recently I found myself creating a mental list of why's.

Why does Nefertiti prefer to eat in the bathroom? I have cat kibble and water layed on in the kitchen for the tree cats but Nefertiti will do little more than take a desperate nibble when hunger gets too much for her if the bathroom cat dish is empty. Nefertiti and Ambrosia sleep in the bathroom so I consider the bathroom food dish just for late night snacks. Nefertiti considers it the only really acceptable food receptacle in the house. Why?

Why does Ambrosia consider an afternoon spent pulling pin out of my pincushion or sewing an afternoon well spent? Yesterday I left some applique on my chair while I went off to do some much needed housework. When I returned the floor was littered with pins while the edges of the applique shape flapped in the breeze. Ambrosia was nowhere to be seen, but I know it was her. She's the only cat in the house that spends her spare time pulling pins out of things. It takes quite a bit of oral dexterity I must admit, but I just can't see the entertainment value in it.

Speaking of my sewing supplies. Why do ferrets steal and stash my sewing tools. Isabella, the first ferret I ever owned, built up huge stashes of thread spools behind our very large bookcase. She added such essential items as orange peels stolen from the bin and if life was really good to her a banana skin or two as well, but time would come when I couldn't find any thread to sew with and had to go and buy not only the thread but a long length of timber to reach the thread stashed at the end of the bookcase. Most of it was only good for the bin when retrieved (what with the dried orange peel and banana skins stuck to it and all) but some was savable. I used to wonder if Isabella had a large sewing project planned. Every other ferret I've owned has found my sewing supplies irresistible and if not caught in the act will take off with whatever they can fit in their tiny little mouths. They have had a bad influence on Ambrosia who finds my thimbles and thread conditioner boxes too tempting to leave wherever she finds them.

Speaking of ferret and their history, why did Isabella's mate Theodore like to steal and stash shoes? None of them would fit him except possibly as a bed. He was so desperate to stash a shoe he found one day that he ignored the fact that Justin was still in it. Theodore just sore the size 13 shoe and he had to have it. He grabbed the edge of it in his mouth and tugged with all his mite trying to get the shoe (and Justin) under the lounge where he could add it to his collection.

Why is Tristan never happy with the side of the door on which he finds himself. Tristan, as mentioned in an earlier posting meows pitifully until I open the door for him to let him in. He then proceeds to meow and fuss until he's let out. Minutes (sometimes seconds) later he is meowing to be let in again only to stay a few minutes and realise outside is where it's all happening and he needs to be. His world record was the day he came inside, just cleared the open door and turned around as the door closed and demanded to be let out.

Why do Hedwig and Hermes, my two galahs, constantly build and rebuild a nest they've made in the hollow log in the aviary? The log's real purpose was to act as a vase for branches of native trees with seed pods or flowers on it for their delectation. These tasty offering were quickly removed and nest renovations resumed so often that I've stopped using it as a branch receptacle and left them to have it as a potential nest. It's been years in the making though and never seems to be just what they'd envisaged when making their renovations. Such things as seed and water dishes from their birdcage and small sticks are carefully placed in the log. The seed dishes cause a major problem because the dish will only fit in the hole in one direction and no amount of banging it will change its shape - not that they don't try over and over again. Once it's finally in there though it's pulled out within days as a new plan for the nest layout takes shape. The log has never been used as a nest (thankfully). I imagine because it's never been brought up to Hedwig's high standards.

Why do the kelpies prefer Billy's bed to their own? Their bed and Billy's bed are exactly the same except in colour. I've tried changing the bedding around after washing it and the girls are more than happy to settle down on what was Billy's bed and feel that life is good. Billy is then the problem. He wants his bed back. Lately this has become moot. Billy in his later life has decided to abandon to the laundry at night and share the kelpies bed, whichever one it is. This doesn't mean that the kelpies are allowed to relocate to Billy's much more desirable bed in the laundry. Billy still defended that bed too by non-stop barking until I got up and sort things out. The girls don't look too thrilled to have to share there bedding with a huge St Bernard, so I've added his bedding beside theirs so they all have a better chance of fitting in. Juno has assumed a permanently resigned expression on her face while Dione keeps trying to garner more of the space on the rugs. There's not much room for a kelpie or two when Billy plants himself in the middle of the two beds. Billy just flops down, closes his eyes and is snoring before any arguments can be delivered.

There's the age old why do the ferrets hate Billy and Billy hate the ferrets. It was hate at first site with no apparent reason for the animosity. Billy took one look at the ferrets, the ferrets sneered back at Billy and war was declared. Billy has lived here for seven years now and he's seen a number of ferrets come and go. He hates every new ferret with the same passion he reserved for its precedents and each new ferret hates Billy on site. The ferrets don't have a problem with the kelpies and the kelpies actually seem to like the ferrets. After all, the ferrets happily drop some of their cat kibble through the wire cage floor for the kelpies to scoop up. It's turned into quite a symbiotic relationship.

Why is it that when I lie down of an afternoon there is a general rush from all cats present to place themselves right up against my right side as close to my armpit as possible? The first cat there digs in and prepares to defend this prime spot of real estate. The two unsuccessful cats find other spots on the bed close to my body but with an air of settling for second best. The left side of my body usually remains cat free for some reason. Why? Back when Guinevere was still with us she refused to accept defeat if she was beaten to the prime location beside me and would begin washing whichever cat got there first. Guinevere's washing was more of a punishment that a grooming exercise and eventually the very soggy cat subjected to Guinevere's tongue would get up and leave to go dry off on another part of the bed. Guinevere triumphantly took possession of The Spot and I was able to get back to my rest. Tristan used to try tucking his head right under my arm in an effort to give Guinevere a smaller target. It didn't work, she just washed whatever was still sticking out. Thankfully non of the present group of cats employs guerrilla warfare.

These are just some of my why's related to the menagerie. I don't have any answers despite pondering these questions from time to time. There are members of my family who say that every one of my pets was as sane as the next animal until it came to live with me. This sounds far too much to me like my nearest and dearest are attributing my pets’ peculiarities on my influence. I refuse to dignify their comments with a response.

Is This Species in Danger?

2011-03-08T08:10:00.001+11:00

An Asian Leopard Cat on the floor. The safest place for it to be I'm coming to think.

I'm very worried about Asian Leopard Cats. I've never met one you understand, but having lived with Ambrosia, our Bengal cat who is half Asian Leopard Cat, for over 12 months I'm wondering how the pure jungle species has survived. I mean they live in trees right? Living in trees requires a certain amount of balance and fitness to ensure you don't fall out of that tree right? Falling out of trees can't be good for your health, especially if you fall out of them on a regular basis right?

Well, Ambrosia is a klutz. There's not polite way of saying it. She is the clumsiest cat I've ever met. Actually she is the only clumsy cat I've ever met. That's why I worry about the Asian Leopard Cat. Everyone of my ordinary moggy cats and the one Rag Doll and two Persians I've owned over the years have been the epitome of grace and balance under pressure. I even had one tortoiseshell cat who could navigate her way across the kitchen wall,s to impossible to reach otherwise cupboard tops, via the top of the door jam without putting a foot wrong. All these cats have sat on windowsills, tops of lounge chairs, lounge chair seats and any other surface higher than floor level and manage to stay there for as long as they chose. When they did decide to leave they gracefully rose to their feet, usually stretched daintilly, and descended to the floor with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of feline fluidity. Poetry in motion you might say - and nothing less would be expected of a cat. Ambrosia on the other hand, is incapable of remaining on a raised surface without falling off and as the only difference between her and other cat breeds is her beautiful Asian Leopard Cat heritage, I am inclined to think the jungle cat is in serious jeopardy.

With unwavering klutziness Ambrosia manages to fall off said raised surfaces more times than she manages to stay put. If Graeme and I are in another room when we hear a loud thud we no longer go to investigate, we just look at each other, nod and say, "Ambrosia," and leave it at that. Many times during the night after the cats have been put to bed in the bathroom we hear the gentle thud of Ambrosia falling off the side of the tub, top of the litter box cover, windowsill or a slightly raised floor tile. I've now put the cats' bed inside the bathtub in an effort to encourage her to settle down and stay put in protected safety, but without success.

After many months of observing this un-cat-like behaviour I have come to the conclusion that Ambrosia doesn't take the dimensions of the surface in relation to the dimensions of herself into account. She insists on rolling, scratching, stretching or any number of other movements guaranteed to send her floorwards, while perched precariously on a narrow surface. Any other cat could most likely manage to stretch, scratch or whatever on this surface, but you'd think Ambrosia would have twigged by now to the fact that she can't. I suppose watching Nefertiti manage these manoeuvres over and over again while remaining comfortably stable on the raised surface just makes Ambrosia believe it can be done. Well, I suppose it can be done. Nefertiti does it all the time. Tristan who isn't a great heights loving cat, preferring to stretch out on the floor, can even manage to lie on a lounge chair without falling when to mood takes him. Ambrosia sees her siblings enjoying high places and believes it's the God given right of cats to be up high. It is, except for Ambrosia.

One of her favourite spots from which to fall is my old treadle sewing machine in the family room. The extended table at the side of the sewing machine is large enough to accommodate a number of cats but unfortunately far too small to accommodate Ambrosia. She stretches out on the extended table and slowly but surely oozes over to the edge as she contorts her little body in all sorts of weird and wonderful shapes while she enjoys the texture of the old wood beneath her. Without fail she eventually falls off and unlike your normal cat, Ambrosia doesn't land on her feet. This is another worry about those tree living Asian Leopard Cats. If they don't land on their feet how can they claim to belong to the cat family? Once she's sprawled out on the floor she looks up at me with an obvious question on her lips - "What happened?" You'd think by now, after 18 months of meeting the floor unexpectedly (I'm assuming she had this disability since she took her first steps), she'd know what happened, but it always seems to come as a surprise to Ambrosia.

Ambrosia loves to stretch out on my lap while I'm resting on the lounge with my feet up. Even though I'm trying to read or sew I have to keep a wary eye on the Bengal. She invariably begins to thoroughly enjoy snuggling on my lap and begins to think a tummy rub would just add that extra bit of bliss. She then begins to roll on her back in the hope that I will pick up on this subtle hint and rub away to her heart's content. Sadly she always choose to roll towards the edge of the lounge rather than towards the back. Bits of Ambrosia slip off my lap and slowly but surely she begins to sink towards the floor. I have to drop my book or needlework quickly and scoop in the drooping bits of the cat. I've found it easiest to then arrange her on her back and rub her tummy

Just recently Ambrosia has developed an interest in Graeme's morning ablutions. To observe the male of the house going about his morning routine she needs a good vantage point and what better spot that the bathroom window sill? As soon as Graeme enters the bathroom Ambrosia follows, skipping ahead and making her way to the window sill. From here she sits down and watches Graeme carefully. He begins with a shave. Ambrosia finds this interesting but not exciting. She's suspicious of the noise his razor makes so she's happy to keep a good distance between them. Ambrosia sits quietly and waits for further developments to take place. You can see where this is going can't you? Once he's shaved for the day, Graeme brushes his teeth. Once he's bent over the sink Ambrosia moves in for closer inspection and bends over the edge of the sill to get a better look at this strange human behaviour. It only took one mis-step during her study of the human male morning routine, and before he knew it Graeme had a surprised, prickly footed cat landing on the back of his neck. Graeme reacted just as we'd expect him to and Ambrosia is now banned from the bathroom while Graeme prepares for the day. Graeme never gives a pet a second chance.

I've given up worrying that she will cause herself some injury. I used to race to her side while she was still gathering her dignity about her once again, pick her up and inspect every inch of her little body. Luckily Ambrosia does share the normal cat's supple body characteristics. She may not land on her feet, but she still manages to walk away from every landing. Maybe this is the trick that has helped the Asian Leopard Cat survive in the wild.

Graeme insists that the Asian Leopard Cat is fine and there's no need for me to start a Teach The Asian Leopard Cat Balancing Skills Fund. He insists that Ambrosia's klutziness is more than likely solely an Ambrosia trait - not a species one.

That can't be right can it?

An Asian Leopard Cat in a tree. How long before it falls out I worry.

Disaster Strikes Spring Rock

2011-02-20T08:32:00.000+11:00

Disaster struck last week while we were out shopping. Graeme and I entered the local farmers' co-op without a care in the world. I browsed the clothes on special while Graeme headed off to buy dog and cat food and then the bomb dropped. the co-op was out of our cats' brand of cat food, except for the fish flavour. Now you might wonder why this caused such consternation in the Spring Rock household. The fact is the ferrets can't stand the fish flavour. They would rather go hungry than let fish flavoured kibble pass their little toothy mouths. The cats are fine with fish of course, but Tristan, Ambrosia and Nefertiti have never been privileged to taste it due to the ferrets' prejudice re fish flavours. Rabbit, lamb or whatever else Whiskas produces are all fine with the ferrets so those are the only flavours that are allowed to enter our home. Tristan, Ambrosia and Neferiti have never learned what they are missing and keeping them in ignorance is fine by me. If they were to discover that delicious flavour out there they just might strike for better kibble flavours every day.

Graeme who knows what a waste of money it would be to buy the fish flavour only to have it well and truly rejected by the ferrets and have to feed them solely on expensive tinned food until a more acceptable flavour could be purchased came back from his cat kibble hunt to report the bad news to me. There was another brand available that we'd tried before, but this brand had rather drastic effects on the cats' digestive system. The smells the cats emitted would have made a dog proud! Also neither the cats nor the ferrets were keen on this other brand, picking at their food and muttering about how disgraceful it was that inferior quality food was being served. We stood in the co-op weighing up the pros and cons of the two unacceptable options to try and decide which was the least unacceptable. In the end I decided that the other brand in lamb flavour was the better of two bad options. We'd buy it now and buy a Whiskas one as soon as we could and mix the other brand in, a bit at a time, until it was all gone. In the meantime the cats and ferret would have to endure the other brand straight.

We were off to a White Suffolk conference in South Australia in a few days so I mixed the little bit of Whiskas that was left with a small portion of the other brand in an effort to convince our cat kibble munchers to eat it. At first the cats carefully chose their preferred brand by picking up the other brand in their teeth and dropping it on the floor, only munching when their tongue detected the Whiskas kibble. The ferrets just sent all the kibble flying, thus making the kelpies waiting below their wire floored cage very happy little dogs. The dogs don't differentiate between brands. Cat kibble is cat kibble and all three canines love it.

I tried to explain that this was all there was until our next shop after we returned from South Australia. I was ignored. They wasted so much kibble in the few days before we left that by the time I filled up their automatic feeders it was pure other brand. The cats just turned up their noses and tails and stalked out of the room. The ferrets continued to mine for better tasting kibble without success. The automatic feeder meant that all the kibble landed on the ground on in the waiting kelpies' mouths. The kelpies had taken up almost permanent residence under the ferret cage and were having the time of their life. Life just didn't get better than this for two old dogs. I removed the automatic feeder from the ferret cage and reinstalled their ordinary ice cream container with little squares cut out of the side for ferret heads to poke in to eat. At least it was more difficult to scoop out large quantities of cat kibble from there.

We headed off for South Australia after setting up all the pets to be self sufficient for the three days and three nights we were going to be gone. Of course I worried about the cat kibble situation. I always worry about something, and so far cat and ferret attitude to the new kibble hadn't boded well.

Sure enough when we arrived home their displeasure was clearly evident, although I think the ferrets were regretting their form of protest. The cats had dug all the kibble out of the automatic feeder and spread it around the kitchen floor. Here they could at least nibble on some when they were hungry, albeit with a sour look of distaste planted firmly on their feline features. The ferrets on the other hand had tried the same protest manoeuvres with rather drastic results. They hadn't taken wire floor of their cage into account and ended up with nothing to eat. I only hope it took them a day or two to empty their feeder and they didn't starve for the three days. I am rather certain this was the case because when I refilled their dish with more of the other brand kibble they once again turned up their little pointy noses and stalked away. I did notice that they didn't start scattering the kibble far and wide though. The kelpies had placed themselves under the cage with expectant looks on their faces as soon as they saw me heading that way with the kibble in hand, so I was pretty sure the kelpies had eaten well during our absence.

The cats' protesting digestive system now made being in the same room with them rather a trial. They were totally unrepentent, glaring at us and clearly stating that if we forced inferior food on their delicate tummies then this was the price we paid. Windows were kept open, cats avoided like the plague and tinned cat food pressed on them at every given opportunity. This they basically ignored. Our cats have been off tinned food for a while now. I've no idea why, maybe they consider it a winter food like we do casseroles. Who knows?

We arrived home Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday Graeme headed to town for some farm shopping. At the top of his list was Whiskas kibble, farm equipment came a very poor second.

It's Back!

2011-02-06T06:51:00.001+11:00

The hairy panic has moved in again. With all the rain we've had this summer it's a bumper crop. I have great visions of convincing florists that the wispy little seed heads are the next big thing in floral arrangements. Once they catch on to this cutting edge idea they'll be beating a path to my door (through the shoulder high piles of hairy panic) and I'll make a fortune!! We've been told on the local news, by a very disapproving agronomist, yes the weed infestation has made the local news, that it's really called witch grass and the habit Riverina folk have of calling it hairy panic is incorrect. We continue to call it hairy panic (panic for short) around here and will always do so. I think the name hairy panic suits it much better and doesn't go offending innocent witches. The house is nearly buried in it. We have to wade through it when we go outside and any attempts to move it away from the house and garden are lost causes. The first light wind that comes up will bring it all back along with a lot more of its friends. Tristan, the red headed cat, hates it.

Hairy panic is a lot taller than Tristan so, when he wishes to come inside for breakfast or morning tea or whatever, he stands outside the lounge room window, buried deep in the panic and meows pathetically to let us know he's ready to pay us a visit. Graeme doesn't appear to be able to hear these pathetic pleas. Maybe Tristan's meow is pitched at too high a frequency for Graeme's ears, but I doubt it. Anyway, it always ends with me having to go out there, wade through the panic and pick Tristan up, brush off the excess panic from his fur, and bring him inside. This wouldn't be so bad, but as I believe I've mentioned before, Tristan hates being on the wrong side of a door, and whatever side of the door he is on is the wrong side. Once in, he catches up on all the inside cats' news - Ambrosia and Nefertiti always greet him like a long lost love, even if he's been gone for only a few minutes. He then has a snack and a drink of water and stays inside for all of ten minutes before he wants to go out again.

His strategy for letting me know his visit has come to an end is to jump on me if I'm 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 is no lightweight cat. When you've been jumped on by Tristan you are left in no doubt that you've been jumped on. His landings are often accompanied by an "Ooof!" from me as his paws hit my stomach (I tend to lay back on the lounge with my feet up you see). If I'm standing up he winds his way around my legs, doing his best to trip me up so he can jump on me I'm sure. Then heads off door-wards while throwing me that significant look once again and returns to wind himself around me again.

I eventually get the hint and open the back door for him, after all I can't be sure after the snack and drink that nature isn't calling. Tristan then walks out the door, tail held high, and stops - horrified to see that the hairy panic is still there. I think he expects me to race out there and clear it all off while he's eating breakfast. I can't think of any other reason he's surprised to see the panic is still in residence all over the back porch and path. Tristan then turns his head and gives me a look mingled with supreme disappointment and hope. The hope is that I'll feel so guilty that the panic is still there, threatening an innocent ca,t that I'll pick him up and carry him to a panic free location on the farm (wherever that may be). I disappoint him every time and refuse to carry him back through, so he sits on the back porch surveying the expanse of panic and works up his courage until he can finally bring himself to work his way through it. This he does as slowly as possible expecting the panic to attack at any moment I'm sure, or maybe hoping that I'm watching and I'll take pity on a poor beleaguered cat and lift him up and out of the weedy torture.

Then of course, a few minutes later the pathetic meowing starts again because Tristan is once again on the wrong side of a door. I have hardened my heart to this second plea to be allowed in. I've spent too much of my time acting as doorman to Tristan and have a lot better things to do with my day. Besides, how many doormen do you know who actually carry people through the doors? I don't go get him the second time - well, not until I get fed up with the meowing, not that that takes very long I must admit. Once he's inside this time I refuse to let him out when he says he's visited for long enough once more. So Tristan is kept prisoner for a while. His subtle hints that he'd like to go outside now that I've had time to clear away the panic are ignored while I try my best to go about my day without getting tripped up by a red headed battering ram.

Tristan does manage to execute an escape though. He simply waits until Graeme or I go outside, then he slips through the door, sits once again in disbelief that the panic is yet again present and accounted for while ignoring with supreme indifference all my invitations and threats to come back inside. If I try to grab him, he dashes through the panic like it's not there.

Cats! Who'd have them?

Buffy

2011-01-04T08:24:00.001+11:00

My friend Jane's (http://five-minutes-of-fame.blogspot.com) cat Moggy isn't well. Jane was telling me about having to give Moggy tablets and Moggy's sneakiness in pretending to take it like a good girl then depositing the tablet later on her bed. This story reminded me of a little whippet I used to own named Buffy. I know, I know. How does a person who loves St Bernards end up with a whippet instead? Well, the usual way actually. I rescued her from death (I tend to get a lot of pets that way).

Buffy was a tiny brindle whippet and a funny looking little thing. She had a hair lip and buck teeth, but I thought she looked very pretty anyway. She was graceful and dainty but could run like the wind. I inherited her from neighbours who were going to have her put down rather than take her with them to New Zealand. I also inherited their cat who was sold with the house, but preferred me to his new owners and moved in without an invitation to become a permanent member of the family.

Unlike the cat Merlin (nee Puss), Buffy didn't take well to changing families. She was convinced that I had stolen her from her beloved family and tried to run away a few times to the house in town her owners had rented after selling their house and before flying out to New Zealand. Eventually Buffy realised they didn't want her any more and stopped getting even with me by chewing beyond repair one of each pair of my shoes. Why Buffy targeted me as the one to punish I don't know. She left Graeme's and the kids' shoes alone and only sought out mine, but after she realised home was now with me she became my devoted companion and a very loving little dog. At the time we had Aasta, our Old English Sheepdog (a compromise between Graeme and me instead of a St Bernard) and Buffy and Aasta made a very strange looking pair. They became great friends so Buffy always had a warm body to snuggle up to should she feel chilly, and being a skinny, practically hairless little dog she could feel chilly on even warm days.

In winter Buffy could be seen wearing the latest season's second hand baby jumpers I purchased from the local charity shop. These didn't last long because Buffy loved to explore our properties and barbed wire fences often ended up wearing the jumper while Buffy returned home shivering and requesting a new jumper please. Luckily I kept a supply on hand.

Buffy often fought above her weight. Well nearly everything she encountered was above her weight. but she was a fearless little defender of her property. Aasta, a dog of peace, would leave her to it and wait back on the veranda for Buffy to come home from whatever battle she'd charged off to fight. She hated foxes with a vengeance and the first sniff of one on her property would send her hurtling off in search of the intruder only to turn up later with an air of the returning hero along with cuts and scrapes that needed tending. All my scolding and good advice to leave the foxes to our bigger farm dogs fell on deaf ears. Buffy had a mission to rid the world of foxes and that was all there was to it.

One thing Buffy didn't do was take tablets. There was no two ways about it - she just didn't. She lived her entire life without being wormed once. Oh I'd tried. I'd tried all the tricks in the book from pushing the tablets to the back of her throat, holding her little buck toothed face shut tight and stroking her throat to mixing a crushed tablet up in some fresh meat. Nothing worked. Buffy could go indefinitely without swallowing, the drool leaking out the side of her mouth, a wounded expression that I could do such a thing to her, planted on her face. If I tried to block her nose in an effort to make her swallow before taking a gulp of air (as advised by a non-whippet owning friend) Buffy would just suck air in through her long muzzle and there was noway I could stop that.   She ate the meat around whole tablets and refused to eat meat with crushed tablets in them. She'd give them a disdainful sniff or two, fix me with a stern stair and stalk off, the picture of hurt feelings. I used to tell her if she contracted a fatal disease that only tablets could fix she was in trouble.

I thought that had happened one day. Buffy had been coughing and choking for a day and obviously suffering a sore throat. If she'd been human I was sure she'd have a hoarse voice. I took her to our local vet who sadly preferred farm animals to spoiled pets. He took one look at the little whippet standing on his examination table coughing gently - looking the picture of misery, and pronounced Buffy to be an obese whippet. Buffy glared at him and was patently saying that no one asked him for his opinion. I looked at the my whippet's tiny frame and asked where? the vet pointed to her chest and said she was carrying too much weight. Buffy gave him a disdainful look and I echoed it. We both knew it was all muscle (well there was no way we could use the big boned excuse in this case). After properly examining her, the vet said that she had trachyitis and she'd need to take tablets twice a day for a week. I shook my head and told him she didn't take tablets. He told me tablets were the only cure so she would just have to. He suggested many of my tried and failed methods so I repeated that Buffy didn't take tablets. The vet pooh-poohed this assertion and said I just needed to know how to do it. I told him I tried all the ways he'd suggested and failed. I even added a few methods I'd tried that he hadn't suggested. He gave me a superior look and said he'd get a tablet down her. He took a long syringe with a rubber thingy with a slit in the end to hold the tablet, popped the tablet in the slit and poked the rubber thingy right down Buffy's throat and pushed on the plunger. Then he closed her mouth and waited until she swallowed. Buffy appeared to swallow, assumed a defeated expression and he let her go.

"There," he said, "That's how you give a dog a tablet."

I looked suitably chastened and was just about to ask if I too could have one of those tablet dispenser thingies when Buffy got a thoughtful expression on her face, gave a ladylike cough and deposited the tablet on the table. She looked down at the tablet, I looked down at the tablet and the vet looked down at the tablet. I could have sworn Buffy had a smirk on her face as she looked up at the vet. I tried not to smile, but I don't think I managed very well. I repeated, "She doesn't take tablets," just to rub it in.

The vet continued to look at the tablet like he couldn't believe it and said, "Well, what are we going to do now?"   I had no suggestions to offer, not being medically trained but assured him I'd prefer it if Buffy was cured of her condition (the sore throat condition that was - I had little hope of her non-taking of tablets condition ever being cured). In the end he gave her an injection and said it wasn't as effective as the tablets but would have to do her. On the way home I gave her a big pat and told her I was proud of her. The vet had been so dismissive of my ability to treat a sick pet that he'd put my back up. With one little cough Buffy had put him in his place.

The injection worked well and Buffy made a full recovery. The vet remembered her every time she visited after that. I can't say she was his favourite patient but they came to an understanding and he never again suggested a tablet as treatment.

Getting Help With Christmas.

2010-12-11T08:27:00.000+11:00

Nefertiti defending her stash of decorations.

Christmas is almost here. I LOVE Christmas. The house begins to explode in Christmas decorations on 1^st December. It takes me a few days to get all the decorations up and where I’m happy with them.

Graeme brought in my decorations from the old farmhouse where I store them all year. As he hauled in the last of the boxes he said, "Please don't buy any more decorations." I tried not to let my eyes shift to the huge bag of decorations I'd bought at last year's sales and kept in the house all year securely hidden until this moment. I think I got away with it. Nothing has been said about the huge bag anyway.

I don’t know if it’s the result of the trauma of carrying all those heavy boxes inside but Graeme has gone into Scrooge mode and is bah humbugging all my decorations. We had stern words about it for a while. I pointed out they weren't actually hurting him. He disagreed, and my thoughts turned to Graeme carrying those heavy boxes. He is now learning to live with the decorations quietly, but I imagine he shudders every time he thinks of returning them to storage. Graeme does like the tree lights though. Apparently they can be set for a few different sequences and fiddling with electronic boxes is just what Graeme likes. So he’s in charge of the sequencing and happiness reigns once again.

I'm having a lot of help with the decorating - unfortunately. The first thing I put up is the Christmas tree. Decorate it heavily, complete with lights and angel on top. This year it took twice as long to decorate – not because of all the extra decorations we’re not going to mention to Graeme (please remember that if you meet him), but because of all this help I was getting.

Ambrosia followed me around the tree and stood on her back paws, put her front two paws together and plucked off the decoration I’d just added and dropped it on the floor. At first I didn't notice what she was doing and looked back to see all the decorations scattered around the base of the tree instead of on the branches. Christmas trees experience an autumn? I thought. I sighed heavily and rehung them all. That’s when I met Ambrosia coming around the tree from the other side, plucking decorations as she went. The guilty look on her face said it all. Nefertiti was keeping a low profile under the tree, but was just as involved with the deciduous decorations. From time to time a little tortoiseshell paw would delicately hook around a fallen ornament and scoop it under the tree to be inspected and chewed just a little bit. She had amassed quite a pile before I noticed her there. She left the real dirty work to Ambrosia as usual, but found her own fun in it all.

Ambrosia then decided that if removing decorations was going to be that frowned upon she’d wait until I’d finished and walked away, when she could de-decorate the tree to her heart’s content. In the meantime she’d find other forms of amusement with this wonderful addition to the house. What are trees for? She asked herself. Climbing!!! She answered herself and fitted the thought with the deed in no time flat.

Ambrosia with the evidence.

Once again I was taken by surprise. I heard here scuffling around under the tree and decided to investigate after I’d returned all the decorations to the lower branches. Before I’d accomplished that a striped paw shot out of the branches and tried to take the decoration I was adding out of my hand. To say it took me by surprise is an understatement. I screamed, jumped back and nearly landed in the boxes of decorations. When my heart returned to its approved site within my body I thought this needed documenting pictorially so I got the camera and you can see it all.

Once the photos were taken I was left with the cat in the tree problem. I knew that just removing her would do no good. She’d be back up that tree as soon as her paws hit the ground. Ambrosia was having so much fun communing with nature (even if nature was in the form of a plastic Christmas tree). I could see her imagining herself back in rainforest with her wild ancestors, the Asian Leopard Cats, hunting the wild life (in this case Christmas ornaments) and living the good life of a beast of prey. I brought the trusty water spray bottle into play and by the end of the day tree climbing had been reduced to only very occasionally when the call of the wild was just too hard to resist.

Next up was putting up the tinsel. This activity was soon reduced to a tug of war between me and the two cats. As I climbed the kitchen step ladder, trailing tinsel as I went, I’d feel a gentle tug on the free end which soon turned into all out warfare. I did try draping the hanging part of the tinsel around my neck and shoulders but from time to time it slipped off and Ambrosia and Nefertiti were waiting at the bottom of the step ladder to deal with any tinsel ends that came their way. Of course I won the battles every time with my superior human strength, but the tinsel did suffer damage. By the time the tinsel was up in the loungeroom, kitchen and dining room the floor looked more sparkly that the walls! This was fine by the girls. Ambrosia and Nefertiti stalked the highly dangerous glittery stuff, pounced on it, threw it up in the air and generally reduced each bit of amputated tinsel to a quivering heap on the floor. Thankfully this battled raged for quite some time, allowing me to get the rest of my decorations up.

Decorating this year was much more a case of putting the delicate ones up high and the sturdy and/or soft ones lower rather than putting them in the spot to show them at their best – just like decorating with a toddler in the house. I’ve had to drastically reduce the number and type of decorations in the bathroom. Ambrosia and Nefertiti sleep in there and as they are unsupervised, fun was had by all - except the decorations. Each morning I’d pick up the decorations from the floor, throw out the more chewed ones and find a new home for them. In the end I found that one handmade, sewn and stuffed fabric tree, one large felt reindeer and a basket of pine cones are the only decorations that can cope with all the nocturnal attention. I still have to return them to their rightful spots most mornings but at least they are unharmed.

Now that the presents are wrapped and under the tree the cats seem to think that there must be something in there with their names on them. To this end they spend as much time as they can get away with under the tree investigating the parcels. I’ve had to repair a few already and the wrapping, never wonderful to begin with, is looking decidedly second hand. Never mind, my family is used to this. The ferrets love nothing better than to get in amongst the presents when they come in for a run from time to time. Now they have the cats to help them, the presents are in mortal danger each day. The spray bottle won’t work here because the water may damage to paper and or gifts. Constant vigilance on my part is the only answer.

Ah, Christmas. I do love it so, but this year it seems to be more hectic than usual. I wonder why?

My Day

2010-11-27T07:54:00.000+11:00

Billy here. Mum usually writes to tell you all about the happenings here at Spring Rock, but I thought I'd put paw to keyboard and tell you about my day yesterday.

Wednesday afternoon Mum discovered something I'd been trying to keep secret - a big abscess on my right front foot. After a bit of prodding which I could have done without she surprised me by leaving it alone and just going inside and talking on the phone to someone.

I knew something was up yesterday morning. First up, no breakfast. I love my breakfast, but no amount of rattling my dish or looking hurt when Mum or Dad came out got them to fill the dish. Then Mum came into the laundry and gave me a bit of a wash. Not a whole wash, she just rubbed down my legs, head and chin with a cloth and soapy water. I helped by moving around a lot and the laundry ended up flooded. Mum wasn't so happy about that, but I thought at least I'll be allowed out now to go and roll in some dirt. Mum must have read my mind because she kept the laundry door tightly closed and cleaned up the floor. She left me in there and mumbled something about I'd never dry in time now. I decided to try to ignore my tummy rumblings and have a nap.

Later in the morning Dad came in and put a lead on me. Hmmm, I thought. I never have the lead put on. Something is definitely up. We walked to the back of his four wheel drive and he told me to get up in there. Well!!!! That just never happens unless there is a visit to the vet in the offing. That's OK with me. I love the vets'. Everyone there makes a big fuss of me and I feel like a king. But this hopping up bit was just asking too much. I put my chin on the floor of the car and swiveled my eyes around to Dad to show him I was willing but would need some help here. Mum was there too by now and told Dad I was never able to jump up that high. She made some unnecessary comments about my weight, but I'll just move on with the story here. Dad tried to lift my paws onto the the car's floor but that wasn't as successful as you might think. They just slid off. Dad then got a big tub and put it near my feet. I still had my chin on the floor to show willingness, so I couldn't get a good look at it. He then told Mum to lift my left paw again while he lifted the right paw. Then he put my back legs onto the tub. Well, I was now a lot closer to the car floor but I wasn't about to try to climb up myself. What if it didn't work. That would be just too embarrassing. Dad finally gave in and lifted my back end into the car, strapped me in and we headed off in the car.

I love car rides and enjoyed the trip. Mum put all the windows down and said something about wet dog smell and how she had to go shopping smelling like that. I can't see the problem. After I'd rubbed my wet fur all over her I thought she smelled rather good.

We got to the vets' ( I was right you see) and I walked in and waited for the attention to flow. There was only one girl in the room, but she was very nice and said complimentary things about me. Then she decided I needed to be weighed. She wasn't sure I'd fit on the scales and neither was I. I wasn't keen on letting everyone know my weight either, it could result in a nasty thing called a diet and I didn't want anything to do with one of those things. So every time Dad maneuvered me onto the scales I turned to the side and stepped off, usually before they had managed to get my back feet on. Mum tried to guard my exit but I just moved off and snuggled up to her. In the end they decided to estimate my weight at 70kgs. Dad is inclined to think I weigh more, but he'll never know.

We sat and waited in that room for a while and I started investigating all the treats and toys. Mum got a bit worried about this and moved me to a spot where there was absolutely nothing to investigate. I lay down and tried to get some sleep. Then this little lady come into the room and called my name. I sat up and looked at her and Mum and Dad took me into this room. We all looked at this little metal table and Mum said, "You don't want him up there do you?" The little vet agreed she'd rather look at me from the floor. The first thing she did was grab my sore foot and try to look at it. I politely withdrew it, but she grabbed it again and Mum moved to my front and told me to let her have my foot. I heaved a big sigh and dropped to the floor so the vet had to get right down there with me if she wanted that foot. She did!!!!! There was a lot of talk backwards and forwards between Mum, Dad and the vet, but I wasn't paying attention. I was smelling all the smells some interesting others very concerning. The vet stood up and took my lead from Mum's hand. Mum stepped back and the vet tried to lead me out of the room. Without Mum!!!!! No way. I just kept moving over to where Mum stood and dragging the little vet along with me. Mum asked the vet if she'd like her, Mum, to take me where I had to go. The vet said no, she could manage and tried to move me towards the door again. I didn't budge. Mum moved towards the door and said, "Come on Billy," so I followed her and walked through the door. The vet said she'd see Mum and Dad later and closed the door. Well, that was a nasty trick. I thought Mum was coming with me. I kept moving around the vet in circles, trying to get back to the door where I last saw Mum. The vet kept pulling for all she was worth trying to stop me heading for the door. I was winning though. I saw another door open briefly and Mum and Dad were standing at the desk in the first room again. The vet tugged on my lead and told someone to close the door as I tried to reach Mum again.

Now things get a bit blurry. I was heaved and hauled onto a metal table by a great number of people all commenting on my weight. They then discovered their table was too small and someone had to stand by to make sure I didn't overflow and fall off. My leg was shaved in a little spot and I was given a needle!!! Another needle was put into my sore foot and very soon I couldn't feel a thing in my foot. Ahhh, the relief. I started to feel very pleased with the whole world. Then this little vet tried to hold my paw again. I withdrew it gently and told her we hadn't been formally introduced. She took hold of my paw again. Again, I withdrew it and told her I only hold paws with best friends and loved ones. She grabbed it again and tried to hold on tightly! I withdrew it and said I'd rather not. She grabbed it again, I withdrew it and said make me! I was polite the entire time, careful not to show my teeth (humans hate it when I get a bit mad and show my teeth so I haven't done it since I was a puppy) but there was no way she was going to hold my paw. I only let her hold it in that little room because Mum said I had to. She left me with my body guard (the one making sure I didn't fall off this tiny table) and rang someone. It turned out to be Dad. There was a bit of a conversation and I thought I heard Dad laugh a bit, but when it was over the vet returned, shaved a bit off my other leg and put another needle in.

Well, that's the last thing I remember for a while. When I woke up I wasn't on the table anymore but in a little cage. My foot felt a bit better and I noticed there was a big cut in the sorest part. I went back to sleep. After a while I heard Mum's voice out in the first room again. The girl at the desk was saying something about me being a big, gorgeous puppy. I liked her too - she didn't try to get too familiar with me while still being admiring and friendly. I forgave her for trying to reveal my weight to the world. After a short while she came to my cage, put my lead on and walked me to the door. Things were a bit strange and I couldn't figure out where Mum's voice had come from. I walked around the room with the girl attached. All the people in that room came over to say goodbye to me. I nodded to each of them and said I forgave them all. I also politely accepted good bye pats. The girl opened a door and I heard Mum call my name. I dashed off (well dashed as fast as my foggy head would allow) and headed for where I thought the voice had come from. The girl tried to pull me a different way, and then I saw Mum!!!! Everything was going to be fine. I walked over to her and we started to leave when a woman with a little dog spoke to me. She asked me if I'd like to go home with her instead. I walked over, taking Mum with me on the end of my lead, to say hello and explain that I was very happy living with Mum and Dad, even if Mum does love ferrets. I was patted and complimented yet again. I do love going to the vets'. Mum took me out to the car where Dad was waiting with the back door open. Now I had the best excuse there was. I couldn't see straight, so there was no way I'd get myself into that car!!! Dad heaved a big sigh and put my front leg into the back and quickly lifted my back legs in as well before my front legs could slide off. I settled down and we headed home.

When we got home, mum put me back in the laundry and gave me some of my favourite food. I went back to sleep. After a while I thought I'd go outside and make sure all was well and nothing drastic had happened while I was gone. Maybe Mum had seen the light and got rid of the ferrets!!!, but no, they were all still there making rude comments about the bald patches on my legs and toes. Then I saw it. The back door of the car was open. Dad said later that he was trying to get the wet dog smell out. I made the supreme effort and jumped into the back all by myself (if anyone asks I'm going to say the Kelpies helped me up there) and settled down for a nap. Maybe they'd take me for another drive. Maybe back to the vets' for some more love and adulation - but no paw holding though!!! When Dad found me in the car he seemed rather upset. Words were said about him having to lift me twice today and I could do it all by myself even when drugged to the eyeballs. I explained about the Kelpies but Dad didn't believe it. He pulled me out and closed the door almost shut. When he wasn't looking I tried to open the door to get back in, but I couldn't get it opened enough. I returned to the laundry and settled down for a big, well earned sleep.

So you see that was my day. I think I handled the whole thing rather well I thought. I was firm but kind with the vet and enjoyed meeting all the new people. I managed to keep my real weight a secret still and my foot even feels a lot better this morning. I think I'll just wander over and see if the back door of the car is open again.

Love,
Billy

Rams

2010-11-01T09:35:00.000+11:00

Young rams on the move. These boys behaved themselves today unlike the two mentioned below.

I've gone off rams a bit this morning. We were out in the sheep yards at 6.30 drafting the ewe lambs and ram lambs for LambPlan scanning this morning. LambPlan for the initiated is a system where lambs are weighed at different times in their development and scanned for eye muscle and fat depth when they are a few months old. This allows them to be compared to all rams in the LambPlan system and rated according to breeding quality potential.

When drafting ewes all I have to do is wave my arms gently while making a quiet shooshing noise to get them into the race yard and down the race where Graeme moves a drafting gate in one of three directions according to where he wants that particular ewe. The rams are a bit more difficult. I have to fill a race yard and then get in there with them and forcefully encourage them to move up to where Graeme is to be drafted. Rams aren't as frightened of humans so it takes that bit more effort to draft them.

Farrer has rubbed off on a couple of the adult rams and they now want scratches and pats too. (You can read Farrer's story here http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/01/sheep-drafting-spring-spring-rock-style.html ) Farrer is getting old and slow so he doesn't tend to be rounded up with the rest of the rams if he's not actually needed these days so thankfully he wasn't present for today's fun and games. Today two rams gave me a lot of trouble. Adult rams weight around 150+ kgs each and when they want a scratch they want a scratch. The Ashmore Ram (we bought him from the Ashmore stud so we call him The Ashmore Ram) was very eager for scratches today. In true Farrer fashion he planted himself in front of me at every opportunity and hinted that a scratch would be more than welcome. His hints basically consisted of refusing to get out of my way until a scratch was administered. I gave him a scratch in passing each time he stopped in front of me, more in self defence than because it was convenient. More about him in a minute.

The other trouble maker was ram lamb. He is one of this year's bottle babies and had a vague notion that he knew us and we should be giving him something tasty. He weighs in around 60+kgs. He wasn't 100% sure what it was he wanted from me, or why he wasn't afraid of us, but this general lack of fear gave him quite a bit of bravado. Now a young ram lamb in his teenage stage is a pain in the neck at the best of times. They think they are good stuff and tend to take some convincing as to why they should do what you want them to do. Add to this that this young ram knew he wanted something from me and wasn't getting it and things heated up a bit. He got increasingly annoyed with me and began to pretend to butt me, lowering his head and jerking it at me. I fended him off with a touch to the head each time and he backed off temporarily. I don't think he was really going to butt me, but I had to let him know I wasn't going to just stand and let him either. I had to find a happy medium between doing nothing and being too aggressive in my reaction thus egging him on, so just a touch to the head and a stern word seemed the best idea. It worked well, but I had to keep doing it.

Most of what I've described above took place in the sheep yard that leads into the race yard. Of course the young ram and The Ashmore Ram were in the last lot to go into the race yard. They hung back in the sheep yards until they were made to go into the race yard where they stood together and compared notes on how to make my life just that bit more difficult while I moved the other rams along. They hit on the most effective strategy they could. The Ashmore Ram wandered up and pushed me from behind at regular intervals, asking for a scratch, while I was occupied moving the rest of the rams up the race. He and the ram lamb kept to the back of the mob so that they weren't pushed through the race earlier. While I was dealing with him the young ram would prance up, lower his head and jerk it at me while my hands were occupied with The Ashmore Ram. Some times they co-ordinated themselves so well that while I was bent over fending off the ram lamb The Ashmore Ram pushed me from the back at the same time. This sandwich effect is not something I'd recommend the faint of heart experience. It's a bit startling to find yourself squished between a huge, friendly ram's head and a much smaller, but far less friendly ram lamb's head while they both push towards each other. Needless to say that my back has had it for the day.

And that's why I've gone off rams.

In Need Of A New Screen Door

2010-10-26T07:42:00.000+11:00

Today I priced new screen doors for the front and back doors. The old ones have been here since the house was built in the early 1960's by the looks of them. The front door has the fly screen separated from the bottom corner and all the cats who have shared the house with me, except for Ambrosia and Nefertiti have used it as an entrance and exit spot - so too, I'm sure have many, many flies and other creepy crawlies in summer. The back door no longer shuts properly and all you have to do is push it to open it - no need to use the handle at all. It's because of this door that I've decided to buy new, modern screen doors - because of the door and Ambrosia to be truthful.

When I first met Ambrosia she was communing with nature (while heavily supervised) in her owner's front yard. Ambrosia, her sister and her mother were having a wonderful time ambushing each other from the undergrowth and exploring every bit of garden they came across. Their owner told me the cats came out twice a day and loved it. I thought of my very large garden area with sheep wire for fences and populated with a large and beautiful variety of native birds and made the decision that hence forth Ambrosia would be an inside cat. Her hunting instincts and supreme skill meant that little of our beautiful bird life would not survive if she were to go out and commune with nature at Spring Rock. Ambrosia was young, she had a little friend in the shape of Nefertiti coming to keep her company so I thought she'd adjust to the rugged life of only having carpet under her feet and soft furniture to sleep or sit on. Nefertiti is also an inside cat, more in solidarity with Ambrosia than because she's a threat to wild life.

Ambrosia hasn't taken well to her enforced homebody status. Whenever I go out into the garden I'm stalked by a little leopard cat who follows me around the house from window sill to window sill starting in the lounge room at the back of the house, moving to the bathroom window at the side of the house and onto our bedroom window at the front. The only window on the fourth side of the house is the kitchen window and as the sill if full of pot plants she can't get herself up there to complete here complaints. She doesn't follow silently either. Ambrosia has the loudest wail I've ever heard from a cat. My time in the garden now is always accompanied by accusing wails from a cat demanding to be let out for her share of the fun.

During the day she lurks around the back door waiting for an opportunity to streak outside and lead us a not so merry chase around the farm. Worse still, lately she has learned to open the door by pushing on it. Thankfully she is not successful in opening it far enough to get through before it closes again, but with persistence she manages to escape at least once a day if we don't remember to close the back door. If she hears the front door open she is there and out the door almost before it's been opened, and with that gaping screen at the bottom she doesn't even have to wait for us to open the screen door. Graeme and I now take a few precautions before going outside. Like maximum security prison guards we ensure that the feline prisoner is contained or at least impeded in nay planned dash to an open door, before we open a door.

The weak point in all this has proved to be Tristan. I think I've mentioned before that Tristan hates being on the wrong side of a closed door. Whatever side he's on is the wrong side. Pre-Ambrosia Tristan spent a lot of his time (and mine) going outside, changing his mind, coming back inside and starting the process all over again. Now, because he is huffy that once he goes out no-one rushes to let him in again straight away, he takes his time considering if he wants to come inside 9or go outside as the case may be) while I hold the door open waiting for the big decision to be made. While he ponders the advantages of inside versus outside I usually have my body blocking the small space created by the slightly opened door while Ambrosia does everything she can think of to squeeze through and escape to the countryside. Graeme tells me to leave Tristan out there, but those of you who know me by now will know that I can't do that, especially if it's raining.

Once Ambrosia has managed to get outside the fun is on. She skips past Billy and the kelpies, barely giving them a looks as she zooms by, where she proceeds to roll on the ground and wail in triumph. With a resigned sigh (because I know what is going to happen) I go after her. Ambrosia waits until I've almost caught up, just lowering my hands to grab any bit of her I can reach, She then cannons off again only to stop a few feet away and repeat the process beginning with the wailing in triumph. Thus we do circuits of the house, sometimes moving out to the paddock outside the house for a change of scenery - Ambrosia zooming off for a few feet, stopping to look back at me and wail a taunting phrase or two, sometimes even going so far as to lie down and roll on the ground just to rub in how unlikely I am to catch her.

Billy likes to help with the cat hunt and in the past has actually been a big help. He often manages to corner her, and hold her there until I catch up. Unfortunately Billy is now getting too big for his boots and has tried to take a nip at Ambrosia for good measure. While I'm all in favour of the nip after having stalked Ambrosia around the house for far too long, I'm not inclined to encourage Billy to bully the cats. I'm worried he'll take his duties a bit too seriously and all I'll get back is a thoroughly chomped cat. Ambrosia is becoming a bit wary of him, but not enough to give him a wide berth or to prevent her initial escape.

While all this is playing out Nefertiti sits at the back door on the inside, and dreams of being as bad as her spotted sister.

How To Put A Ferret In Its Place

2010-09-25T08:21:00.001+10:00

Life here with the Spring Rock menagerie has been very quiet lately. I've been busy buying rams and selling rams (different rams of course) so nothing story worthy has been happening here. I've delved into my archives and found this story about the ferrets. I know a lot of you are big ferret fans so I thought you might enjoy this. Since writing this story Jocie has become a permanent member of the menagerie. Troy and Erin gave her to me when they moved to Queensland where ferrets are illegal! Every now and then I can see a far off look in Graeme's eyes and I know he's thinking of moving to Queensland and while he's at it trying to convince that very sensible state government to make St Bernards and cats illegal while they are at it.

******************************************************************

I know what everyone who has ever met a ferret in real life is thinking. “You can’t put a ferret in its place because ferrets believe their place it at the top of the pecking order!” Well, let me tell you, it can be done.

First of all, my big news is I have another ferret coming here to live with us. Her name is Jocie and she belongs to Erin and Troy, a lovely couple who are friends of Justin’s. Erin and Troy needed to find a home for Jocie and for some reason thought I’d make the perfect ferret foster mother. I agreed to take custody of Jocie and broke the news to Graeme as gently as possible. He must have been in shock because there was no protest at all, just a quiet, “Oh,” and that was that. I thought maybe I’d broken the news too gently and he didn’t realise that an actual real live ferret was being added to the menagerie roll, but thought it best not to labour the point. I’m waiting on tenter hooks for Jocie’s arrival on Sunday to see what transpires with Graeme.

A few weeks ago Erin and Troy brought Jocie over for some playtime with The Gang of Three. Jocie is only three months old and an only ferret so of course has lived her short little life as boss of the household. She saw no reason to adjust her attitude when her circle of acquaintances was increased to include me and three much older ferrets. Jocie was very excited to discover that the world contained other ferrets and was more than happy to play with them.

First up though she had to make sure they understood who was boss. We let all four of them have a run in the hall to get to know each other. It’s a confined space and it was easy for Erin and me to rush to anyone’s assistance should a ferret battle to the death break out.

Ebony was a push over – literally – Jocie bounded up to Ebony who is at least twice Jocie’s size and jumped on Ebony’s back. Ebony flattened herself to the floor and cried uncle right from the start. Great, thought Jocie, one down and two to go. She then turned her attention to Horton who put up just al little, token resistance then decided it was all too much effort so let Jocie believe she was the boss. It didn’t make much difference to Horton; he had every intention of doing just as he pleased anyway and could always find an escape by going to sleep should the going get too tough with this new, bossy ferret. Ebony and Horton are experts at dealing with a megalomaniac little ferret; after all they have lived with Miette since they were quite young. Anything for peace has been their motto almost from the minute she grabbed them by the neck and pointed out that size didn’t matter, she was the boss.

What Ebony and Horton didn’t do while caving in to Jocie’s power play was warn her that a much tougher nut was waiting in the wings to meet her. I don’t think Jocie had paid much attention to Miette. She doesn’t look like a threat to ferret world domination these days (actually she’s never looked like a threat – that’s one of her biggest secret weapons), she’s very, very old and grey, has cataracts and is the tiniest ferret God ever put on Earth. I imagine Jocie didn’t even think it was worth the effort to grapple with Miette, it was a foregone conclusion in her mind that Miette would just recognise superior ferret power when she saw it and there would be no contest. Poor Jocie, she didn’t realise what was in store for her.

Just for form’s sake Jocie approached Miette in her dominant ferret mode and went for the back of the neck. All text book stuff in ferret domination – just grab the neck, wrestle this tiny, inferior ferret to the ground, prove one’s superiority and let go saying, “No harm done, all friends now.” That’s when Jocie’s little world came unstuck. Even at three months old Jocie makes two of Miette in size. Before she knew what was happening, Miette had performed a double somersault with a flip and had Jocie pinned to the ground. I held my breath. Miette is old and frail now and I wasn’t sure she would come out on top this time. Jocie freed herself from Miette’s grip, tried to explain politely that Miette had it wrong, she, Jocie was the top ferret in this outfit and all Miette had to do was realise this and they could form a lasting friendship. Miette just curled her little lip at this suggestion and dropped Jocie again in mid explanation.

Well!!! Jocie was made of sterner stuff than any ferret Miette had ever encountered in all her eight years. Only one other ferret had ever entered into a real contest for the top position on the ferret totem pole before, and you really couldn’t call what Theodore did as entering into the contest. All have caved in at the second or third tussle and admitted that Miette was the best. Theodore? Theodore was one of my first pair of ferrets and he was old when Miette met him. She bullied him for a couple of days while he just tried to keep out of her way. Finally, when she got to be too cocky he grabbed her by the neck, lifted her off the ground, shook her twice and dropped her on the floor. He then moved away to investigate other parts of the loungeroom leaving Miette in shock. I was beside myself with worry. All the time I was watching Theodore dealing out this tough love, I was worried that he’d really hurt the little bossy thing, but I also understood how he felt and that this was his chance to bring this particular ferret war to an end. Miette came over to me for some sympathy. She didn’t get it. She then sought out Theodore, told him she respected a ferret who stood up for himself, and agreed to be top ferret of all except him. A beautiful friendship resulted and lasted until Theodore died of old age.

Anyway, back to the Miette – Jocie battle. Jocie is not the type of ferret to give in easily. Miette is not the type of ferret to give in period. The battle raged over the entire length of the hall for quite some time. At no time though did it deteriorate into viciousness or acrimony. It was just a contest to see who would win with each combatant determined it wasn’t going to be the other one. Ebony and Horton amused themselves away from the battle field, which often involved having to move somewhere else because the battlefield had caught up with them. From time to time Jocie needed a bit of morale boosting so she’d go and drop Ebony to the ground, flatten her out and prove that she, Jocie, was still top ferret in some ferret’s opinion. Miette sneered at such insecure needs – she knew she was top ferret and didn’t need to keep proving it to herself.

Miette had an unfair advantage in knowing the lay of the land in the hall – it was foreign territory to Jocie. Miette used things like the vacuum cleaner stored in the corner and the bookcase as ambush sites and popped out from these hiding places as Jocie rushed passed. Guerrilla warfare was new to Jocie but it didn’t take her long to see the benefits. The problem was the only two hiding places in the hall seemed to be full of Miette whenever Jocie tried to use the same tactics. Jocie started to wonder if there were in fact two Miettes and she was outnumbered.

In the end Jocie agreed to let Miette think she was boss. She didn’t exactly give in. She just stopped trying to dominate Miette and chose to play with the other two instead. Miette was welcomed into the games and all four became good friends. Horton by this time just wanted to find a place away from the waring women and go to sleep so we put all four of the ferrets in the inside cage for a well earned nap. Erin and I were just about ready for a nap too after trying to referee the Ferret Games. Once they were in new territory Jocie thought she’d try another power play. Maybe Miette would be at a disadvantage with no chance to use her guerrilla tactics and in a much more confined area. The war resumed and raged all over the cage. Ebony hopped from one side to the other to get out of their way. Horton slept on with the battle literally raging over him. At one time we thought he was going to get involved. He stood up, looked at the two war mongers, stretched slightly and moved to a more remote part of the cage to give them more room while he went back to sleep.

In the end Jocie was completely worn out. Where Miette managed to find all that energy at her time of life I don’t know, but finally all the ferrets settled into a ferret pile and went to sleep. I went in later to check on them and found Miette to be the only one awake. She was whispering something into Jocie’s ear while she was asleep. I know what it was too.

“Miette is the boss, Miette is the boss.”

So you see, you can put a ferret in its place. It just takes another ferret to do it.

Miette whisperin "Miette is the boss, Miette is the boss."

Making Friends at the Adelaide Show

2010-09-16T07:48:00.001+10:00

Not the ram in question, but really a little brag from me. This is Sam, our very first Suffolk ram.

Recently we visited the Adelaide Show. We go most years for two reasons. The Elite Ram Sale and fairy floss. There are members of my family who will tell you I go just for the fairy floss but that's not true. While it is true I refuse to leave the show until I have some to take with me, I really go to admire the sheep on show.

This year we needed to buy two rams - a Suffolk and a White Suffolk. We inspected all the possible contenders for the Spring Rock menagerie, Graeme hoping like mad that he found rams that didn't have too much personality and me chatting to each ram to see if they were friendly or not. All the rams on our list seemed to be Graeme's type of ram rather than mine. With a philosophical sigh I left Graeme to talk to their owners about our picking the ram up at a later date should we be the successful bidder. We don't take our sheep trailer with us - it's just too difficult to find parking in Adelaide at this time of year when you only have a car, just about impossible with a huge trailer on the back.

While Graeme was making arrangements with the breeders I walked to the other end of the huge shed to meet and greet the Suffolk rams. The first ram on our list turned out to have won reserve champion at the show. His ribbons and awards were proudly displayed over his pen while he snuggled in a corner taking a well earned rest. I admired his awards and congratulated him on his success. He was watching me as I looked over the certificates and ribbons in his haul and when I spoke to him he rose to his feet, wandered over to me and nudged my hand with his nose. That's all the encouragement I need to get up close and personal with a ram - really it's all the encouragement I need to get friendly with almost any living creature (humans aside of course!!!). I began scratching where his horns would be if Suffolks had horns, rubbing the side of his face and between his eyes. All favourite scratching/rubbing spots for sheep.

While this little love-fest was going on an elderly man stopped to watch me. I smiled at him and said the ram was very friendly. That was all the encouragement he needed to stop for a long chat about his merino farming history. He was a lovely fellow and the ram and I enjoyed his company immensely. After he left the ram and I continued our bonding process and I told him he was now top of my list and I'd do my best to get Graeme to bid has high as needed to buy him. He seemed fine with that and started to close his eyes in bliss.

As he was drifting off into his own little paradise a group of girls walked by. They stopped abruptly when they saw the ram blissing out.

"Look at that sheep!" one of them screamed.

"Wow!" was the reply from her friends.

They looked at me with shocked expressions and I smiled at them and said, "I'm hypnotising him."

They believed me and started watching closer. "How do you do that?" one asked.

Oh, oh. I thought. They might try to hypnotise a ram that wasn't the big bundle of friendliness this ram is. I had visions of irate rams pounding their hand against the side of the pen while proclaiming he wasn't that sort of ram. So I came clean and told them I wasn't really hypnotising him. He was just a very friendly ram and was enjoying the rubbing and scratching session. They still watched closely. I think they preferred my first explanation though.

Did we manage to buy him? Sadly no. The bidding went way too high even for me to consider buying him. Farrer will not have any competition on the farm here for being the friendliest ram. Well, I don't think he will. We did buy the Suffolk ram's brother though, so I suppose there's some chance his friendliness is a family trait.

What More Can I Say But Billy!!!!

2010-08-29T07:40:00.000+10:00

As those who have followed my blog for a while will know, I have a problem when visiting the toilet here - Billy. He sleeps in the laundry where our only toilet lives and as the laundry isn't very big and Billy is, there isn't a lot of floor space left over for essential toilet visiting things like feet and legs (mine, not Billy's). When Billy is really up close and personal with the porcelain it usually takes a couple of gentle, or sometimes not so gentle, digs in his ribs to get him to shuffle out a bit. Usually if find it a lot easier and quicker to do my best to arrange my self around him. This of course is fraught with danger, but at least if I'm ever unsuccessful in my arrangements I'll have a soft place to land on Billy's ample belly.

This morning there just wasn't anywhere to put my feet. Billy was almost wrapped around the base of the toilet. It's in a corner of the laundry so that was quite a feat for a large dog. Billy is stone deaf these days so unless I can get him to look at me, and when he knows I want him to do something he doesn't want to do, he'll look anywhere but at me, I can't get him to do a thing. If I can get him to look at me, hand and arm flailing, serious facial expressions and lots of pointing usually result in Billy heaving a sigh and going wherever it is I'm pointing. This time he just kept his eyes closed, sleep being the best excuse ever. I proceeded to perform the digs in the ribs routine only to me met with absolutely nothing from Billy. He didn't grunt, shuffle to the side or even give a hint that he'd felt my prodding. I moved my foot and prodded his head. Billy's response was to open one eye, look at me and then close that eye again. My back was in a bad way already so there was no way I could bend and grab his collar and forcibly remove him. Graeme was out in a paddock somewhere so calling for his help was no use and I really needed to move that dog!!!

I resorted to bribery - quite a common theme with my dealings with Billy I'm afraid. Billy is a sucker for dry cat food. He will do almost anything for a little scoop of cat food, including take his attention off the ferrets in the middle of an exchange of insults between he and them, so waking up and moving a few inches should have been a cinch. I opened the bin containing the food and took out a small scoop. At the sound of the cat kibble crunching as I scooped it up Billy's eyebrow twitched. I waved the scoop under his nose. Billy's nose twitched. I then moved the scoop away but Billy didn't follow. I brought the scoop back under his nose and once again that nose twitched. I might add that twitching nose was the only thing that did move on Billy's body though. I moved the scoop away with no dog removing success yet again. I decided to leave a little trail of cat foot from Billy's nose to his dish in the hope that he'd jump up and scoop up each kibble, thus creating a free space around the toilet. No such luck.

Billy lay there, nose twitching, trying to locate the spot where the kibble lay. Then, before my disbelieving eyes a huge pink tongue came out, moved across the floor and scooped in the little line of kibble closest to his head. Crunch, crunch crunch and the tongue came out again, explored as far as it could reach and scooped in the last of the kibble he could reach. I waited for Billy to get up to get the rest but he obviously thought that the little snack he'd had (all of about six pieces of kibble) would last him for a while and went back to sleep with a satisfied smile on his face.

I had no alternative than to perform acrobatics that a woman of my age and injuries shouldn't even contemplate. My mission was successfully completed and more acrobatics performed to get me back on my feet while Billy slept on.

The left over cat food? As soon as I opened the door Juno, the red kelpie type, raced in and scooped it up as quickly as she could (the kelpie types love cat food as much as Billy does) while keeping one eye on Billy's prone form. I expected Billy to jump up and defend his stash. Nope. Billy gently snored and left Juno to it.

Just what was Billy up to last night?!!!!

Bird World

2010-08-04T08:02:00.001+10:00

Last week we had to drive to Melbourne for a car service and, as it was going to take a day and a half to get done, we had to spend the night down there. We decided to take this opportunity to have a mini holiday and stay at Ballarat for the night and spend Friday being tourists.

We drove down to Melbourne on Thursday and dropped the car off at the dealers for its service. We then took off in the loan car (a very sporty looking Volvo) and visited with OzJane
http://five-minutes-of-fame.blogspot.com/ for a few hours. Jane made us a very scrumptious lunch and her friend Sue came around to show me how to make a very intriguing needle holder that opens from either side and turns the opposite side into the hinge. Very hard to explain without a video to show what I mean, but it looks like magic!!! I am now addicted to making these and will give them as gifts to the quilting group ladies who visit here each month and for all the girls in my family for Christmas as well as anyone else I can think of. I made my first one that night in our motel room and it was a success!!!

After being thoroughly spoilt buy Jane we drove to Ballarat and went to Bird World http://www.ballaratbirdworld.com.au/ on Friday morning. It's about a 1km round walk through the sanctuary and aviary but on a board walk, so I decided to brave it. I'm so glad I did. The birds were wonderful. We started off looking at the birds in the cages, a long line of quite roomy cages and plaques with information about each species. When we got to the black cockatoos I found bits of stick to give the inhabitants because I know cockies love nothing better than to chew a stick to sawdust. They all came to the wire and appreciated my efforts and were all so gentle. A few of them were talkers.

One Major Mitchell parrot went through a whole repertoire of words and sounds - hello, wolf whistle, even a meow and the hackneyed, Cocky wants a cracker. I told him how disappointed I was in him for being so trite and he hung his head in shame, then went back to wolf whistling at me to try and win my favour again. It's been so long since anyone has whistled at me that this ploy was a complete success. While we were talking to the Major Mitchell and tickling the foot of a very big black cockatoo next door - he held the soft underpart of his foot up to the cage for us to stroke -, the owner of the sanctuary came out of his back door and spotted us. He stopped to talk about his birds and ended up taking us into the cage of the black cockatoo, who's name is Jessie. I never did figure out if Jessie was a boy or a girl. The owner referred to him as both he and she while talking to us, and I'm not expert enough to tell by the colour of the white spot under Jessie's tail.

Jessie fell in love with Graeme and hopped on his arm while Graeme was paying attention to the owner. Jessie then travelled up Graeme's arm, settled on his shoulder close to Graeme's face and lowered his/her head near Graeme's obviously asking for a snuggle (we'd seen the owner snuggle with her when we first entered the cage). Well, Graeme, might scratch a parrot and even offer his finger for the parrot to hold hands, but there's no way he'll snuggle with a parrot so he pretended not to understand what Jessie wanted, even after I patiently explained the bird's intentions to Graeme! Jessie had to make do with what Graeme would do, and lots of pats and kind words from me of course. I introduced Jessie to the delights of having under his/her wing scratched. I don't think anyone had done that before because at first he/she was reluctant to raise her/his wing, but once I started scratching Jessie's wing stayed up for the rest of the visit and more requests for such scratches were made. That's my galah Hedwig's favourite scratching site so I thought other birds would most likely would appreciate it too.

All the time we were in Jessie's cage the Major Mitchell was doing everything he could to get my attention, so I divided my time between the two. I couldn't offer him a scratch of any sort though because he was a biter.

We then said a sad goodbye to Jessie and walked the rest of the aviary. Through the free flight section we were stalked by a gorgeous red and green parrot who met us when we first approached the aviary by landing on the wire and talking to us. Once we'd gone in he dive bombed us from time to time, not threateningly, just playing, he came nowhere near us and was so obviously having fun that we weren't at all worried about him. We didn't realise he was hatching an escape plan. Just before we reached the end of the aviary he left us. When we got the gate there he was sitting on the post near the exit. We stopped and chatted to him and he made it plain he didn't want to be touched, so I contented myself with just passing the time of day with him. While we were chatting he climbed onto Graeme's arm and sat there with an expectant look on his face. That's when I realised he was hoping to be sprung! He wanted Graeme to carry him out of the cage and into freedom!!! When he realised that this wasn't going to happen, he took off in a huff and we left the cage quickly in case he returned to fly through with us.

We had a great time. Jessie is welcome to come and live here at Spring Rock any time he/she feels the need for a change of scenery. The Major Michell is welcome too, even though he is a biter. With his wolf whistles to stroke my ego he'd be a wonderful addition to the menagerie.

Ambrosia And The Owl

2010-07-17T18:30:00.001+10:00

Ambrosia has added drug addiction to her many sins. I don't know if you remember the children's toy that was in the news a while back. It was a set of beads that children could lay out in any shape they liked, spray with water and they stuck together creating a little sculpture made of plastic beads. As it was reported in the media if they were sucked hallucinations were often the result, and as little people tend to like to suck things this was a pretty drastic side effect. The company that sold them recalled all the bad beads and got to work to create a none hallucinogenic bead. When the original beads first came out my granddaughter Hannah was given a set as a gift. She made me a little bead owl for my owl collection. I duly thanked her and admired him as a true work of art. None of us knowing the potential this owl had for causing trouble. Hannah was so proud of herself when she made it for me. It was one of her first works of art with her new toy. She wanted me to keep it after all her other bead creations and the bead set itself had been thrown away. Hannah just gave me a lecture, complete with wagging finger, telling me never, never to suck the owl she'd made for me. I promised faithfully, but sadly Ambrosia has made no such promise.

Ambrosia went through a phase of stealing my owls. Every day I'd find another little owl removed from my collection and secreted somewhere around the house. I haven't found them all yet, but then again I haven't found all my thimbles or other sewing paraphernalia that Ambrosia finds so intriguing yet either. Then one day Ambrosia discovered the little bead owl. Since then she's devoted all her pilfering skills to getting hold of the owl. I've found it in all sorts of weird and wonderful places, usually with Ambrosia curled up asleep beside it. I've tried hiding it, putting it up high and covering it with other owls, but Ambrosia has always managed to find it. I suppose all those hallucinogenic drugs have a distinct smell for cats. Up until now Ambrosia hadn't done anything but pick up the owl and carry it around, just as she picks up my thimbles and carries them around or anything else that fits in her mouth, is portable and catches her eye. Last Monday the owl stealing took a darker turn.

When we arrived home from shopping last week Ambrosia was in the hall, lying down and taking it easy. I had hidden the owl in a tight fitting pot I (that's made to look like a tree trunk) earlier that day. It acts as a nest for Sad Owl, a soft toy and Hannah's favourite owl in my collection. Sad Owl was firmly placed on top of the bead owl. When I went in to investigate, after finding the soggy Beedo owl on the hall carpet with Madam lying prone beside it, Sad Owl had been lifted out and neatly put beside the now empty pot.

I retrieved the bead owl from the floor beside Ambrosia. She opened one eye to watch what I was doing, lifted a paw to stop me and decided that was too much effort. With a sigh Ambrosia resumed her slumber. She eventually recovered to some degree and rocketed around the house for a long while afterwards. No-one was safe. First she'd hurtle towards Nefertiti who was doing her best to keep a low profile and avoid all leopard type cats in the house. The trouble was the house seemed to be filled with leopard type cats. Ambrosia was everywhere at once! After Nefertiti moved to higher ground and pretended to be asleep Ambrosia turned her attention to Graeme and me. We spent quite a while sidestepping Ambrosia as she skidded across the kitchen floor in our general direction, with a startled look on her face. She seemed to have forgotten that if you try and stop on the kitchen vinyl after scooting across it at top speed, stopping is going to take a while to happen. I tried to catch her a few times to calm her down but she was having way too much fun. She'd wriggle out of my arms and race around the house as if it was full of frisky mice. Who knows, after her bead owl sucking, maybe she thought it was.

There were many comments from one member of the family (no names mentioned but you know who I mean) who kept mumbling that she should be put outside until she calmed down. Huh!! Catching her and holding on to her long enough to make it to a door would have been a fine thing. Not that I'd throw my little chemically confused cat outside in her hour of need. It was tempting at times - but no! I wouldn't do it. Eventually Ambrosia wound down. Then she came and cuddled up to me and went to sleep - exhausted after her busy day. I have now hidden the troublesome bead owl inside a cylindrical box with a tight fitting lid and a heavy owl sitting on top. I hope I've finally thwarted Ambrosia's access to drugs.

Now all I have to do is watch Ambrosia for withdrawal symptoms.

Isn't he beautiful? Who knew the problems he'd cause.

Worming Pets Can Be A Health Hazard

2010-07-02T07:35:00.000+10:00

Winter is here and the dogs are spending their days dozing in any sunny spot they can find, the cats are living in front of the heater and the ferrets have retired to their polar fleece sleeping bag. This means not much blog worthy is happening at Spring Rock at the moment, so I've dug up a story I wrote back in March 2006.

I'm feeling very sorry for myself at the moment. I fell down the back stairs yesterday and I'm now sporting the most interesting collection of bruises all over my body. Yesterday was worming the pets day – a day I really dislike. With the variety of livestock I have, the methods for getting the various chemicals down the correct throats are as diverse as they are ineffective.

I began my assault on the “Spring Rock” worm population by worming the cats. I used to be able to buy a tasty paste that you spread on each cat’s paw and then sat back and watched the cats get stuck into it. As they cleaned their paws you could hear them saying, “Yum, yum,” or the cat equivalent anyway. I can’t say that that was the resulting scenario around here, what with the squirming, twisting and turning, the paste ended up all over the cats, but once the stuff was distributed to each cat paw, face, back, tail or whatever, but they definitely cleaned it off their fur and rarely tried to spit it out afterwards.

The co-op where I buy the worming medications has had a change of policy. Farm cats don’t get wussy little paste tubes to deal with their worms any more. Farm cats are tough. Farm cats get a tablet and can like it or lump it. Well my cats lump it. The tablets come with a special little syringe type applicator. The instructions tell you to place the tablet in the holder, put the applicator in the side of the cat’s mouth and push on the plunger. Voila! The instructions don't actually say Voila! but they definitely imply it. One cat thoroughly wormed. Well, I don’t know how the cat test pilots reacted in the laboratories when they tried these new applicators out, but the reality in my kitchen is vastly different to the above scene.

My cats are very sneaky and will eat around a piece of cheese or meat with a tablet in it and leave the tablet. I've tried crushing the tablet up and putting it in meat or cheese, but then the cats just refuse to eat the offering at all. So I thought, what the heck, I'll give this modern technology in cat tablet dispensing a go.

First I put the tablet in the applicator, then grabbed the nearest cat (in yesterday’s case it was Lancelot), while Guinevere looked on with deepening foreboding. After a small struggle, whereby I lost a few patches of skin on my left hand, I managed to get the applicator into the side of Lancelot’s mouth and pushed! More squirming and clawing on Lancelot’s behalf and then, phteww, one tablet on the kitchen floor. I repeated the tablet insertion process a number of times trying, to introduce a slightly different technique each time – put the applicator in the other side of the mouth, put the applicator in the front of the mouth, prize Lancelot’s jaws open and go straight to the back of the mouth, throw the dispenser against a wall and use my fingers to poke it down, but none of these resulted in a swallowed tablet. By now the tablet was looking very second hand. I had a little think and decided to give the “wrapping the cat like a mummy” technique another try. I usually end up trying this as a last resort.

I have to admit that I’m not a dab hand at cat wrapping. There always seems to be more than the standard issue of cat legs and teeth while I’m frantically wrapping, and some of those extra legs always end up poking out with claws extended in my general direction. This time was much the same. After a couple of aborted attempts to get the tablet to its final destination and suffering more skin and blood loss, I ended up with the bits of Lancelot that were sticking out of the towel in a classic half nelson wrestling hold, while I tried to use my left hand to open his somewhat reluctant mouth while still keeping a firm grip on the bundle with that same hand. It wasn’t easy. By throwing my body over the towelled bit of cat, and holding him down that way, Lancelot finally had the worm tablet in his mouth. Various obscene cat threats were being issued through the jaws I was clamping shut, but he refused to swallow. I waited. Lancelot waited. I stoked his throat with my spare hand. He glared at me and issued more threats. Little bits of dissolved tablet dribbled out the side of his mouth. I scooped it up and smeared it on his paw (just like the paste of times gone by). This standoff went on for a while with both of us glaring at one another, until Lancelot finally gave in and swallowed the tablet. I gave him a drink of milk to show there were no hard feelings and Lancelot and I were friends once more. Lancelot has a milk addiction, and anyone (me that is) who supplies his habit is his best friend, no matter what personal insults have gone before.

Guinevere on the other hand, is a totally different kettle of cat. She had been sitting under the table, watching the proceedings and enjoying Lancelot’s discomfit. As soon as Lancelot was tucking into his milk, Guinevere realised that she was most probably going to be next and scooted out of the room as fast as her paws could carry her. I eventually located her under the bed in Justin’s room and from there chased her under various other pieces of furniture throughout the house. I managed to corral her by closing doors as we left each room and restricting her to the small hall we have, and after just as much trouble as I had with Lancelot, Guinevere too was wormed.

Great! The worst job done I figured. I have a lot of experience with dogs that don't like tablets. Years ago I inherited a Whippet named Buffy who took not taking tablets to an art form. Buffy had a hair lip and buck teeth, but I don't suppose that was the reason she wouldn't take tablets. She could hold on the them as long as you were around and then spit them out later. I took her to the vet's one day and he said she had Tracheitis or some such throat ailment. He said that a course of antibiotic tablets were the cure.

I said, "Buffy doesn't take tablets."

His reply was along the lines of every dog will take tablets if dealt with forcefully enough. I just repeated that Buffy didn't take tablets and I was sure I couldn't get a week's worth into her. With a big sigh he popped the tablet in her mouth, held her mouth closed and covered her nose. After she began to turn blue and appeared to swallow he let go. Buffy popped out the tablet on the table. I just looked at him without commenting. He then heaved another sigh, wandered off and rummaged in his equipment drawer and returned with a long rubber hose with a spilt in one end and a syringe on the end. In retrospect, this obviously worked along the same lines as the cat tablet inserter I described earlier. He put the tablet in the slit, pushed the rubber hose right to the back of Buffy's throat and depressed the syringe. Buffy's eyes popped out in surprise and he then once again held Buffy's mouth shut until she swallowed. He let go and was just about to get rid of the syringe when Buffy gave a delicate cough and produced the tablet yet again.

The vet looked at me as if I'd spat the tablet out. I returned his look with a very innocent one of my own and said, "Buffy doesn't take tablets."

After suggesting we put the dog down and my negating that option he decided to give her a long lasting injection. Happily Buffy survived the throat infection and lived for many, many non tablet taking years.

Back to the current worming episode. The dog worming medication these days is in the form of meat flavoured chews and all but one dog love the taste. It hardly seems fair that the Co-op has no philosophical problems with farm dogs being pampered with meat flavoured worm tablets while farm cats are expected to do it tough, but I digress. I gathered the chews and headed out the back to administer them to the canine population.

As I said, all except one, Shadow the Silky Terrier type, love them. This pro-worming chews attitude creates its own problems. I have to be very careful that each dog gets it correct dose and the others don’t to steal someone else’s dose, resulting in some very wormed dogs and some not at all wormed dogs.

Billy was first. His chews are the giant, economy size. He needs two huge chews and a medium sized chew. Billy is more than happy to take them, but finds that they are too small for his big, floppy mouth to hold onto. I have to stand over him and supervise his cleaning up all the dropped bits. Unfortunately this means, picking up the slimy morsels and poking them into Billy’s mouth. But in the scheme of things this is easy work, if very messy and I count my blessings. If Billy didn’t like them there would be no way I could keep a tablet in his mouth, with his acres of droopy mouth he’d be sure to find somewhere to spit it out.

So Billy was finally dosed. I then turned my attentions to Shadow. Shadow has a sixth sense about worming and even though she can no longer see or hear, her nose told her I was up to no good. She then retreated to the laundry and tried to blend in with the scenery. I grabbed as much Silky as I could manage, flipped her over and opened her mouth. While she grumbled about the indignity of it all, the chew was popped into her mouth. Shadow glared at me through cataract clouded eyes and swallowed. Well that was easier than I expected, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, or a Silky for that matter, so I turned my attention to my two hyperactive Kelpies.

Juno is the lowest rung of the doggy social ladder. All other dogs keep her in her place, and she’s quite comfortable there. No amount of self esteem lessons on my part has convinced her she’s as good as the other dogs so she stays oppressed and seems quite comfortable with her lifestyle of being bullied by all and sundry. I therefore wormed her sister Dione first, with the intention of giving Juno her chew while Dione was occupied with hers. Billy was behind me, offering to take this chew off my hands and deal with it himself, but he knew if he tried to steal it, there would be trouble, so he waited patiently in case the chew became mysteriously up for grabs. Dione on the other hand, was watching carefully and planning her stealing the chew from Juno strategy as she munched on her own one. Just as Juno tentatively moved in to take her chew, Dione made a lunge for it too. I moved quickly to fend Dione off and stop her eating Juno's share. Almost immediately I knew I’d done the wrong thing. I found myself overbalancing on the edge of the back porch and then tumbling down the three concrete steps, hitting each step as I went. I lay at the bottom feeling very sorry for myself for a short while.

Billy was still standing at the top of the steps with no thought in his head except trying to will the chew to move in his direction through the power of positive thinking. When he saw me lying at the bottom of the steps, surrounded by anxious Kelpies, he took immediate action to remedy the situation. He assumed the Kelpies were responsible for my predicament and in fact on the verge of attacking me. The fact that neither Kelpie has a nasty bone in its body didn't change Billy's mind. I was in trouble and Billy is my protector so he

raced to defend me.

There I was, lying prone and aching all over, while Billy stood protectively over me, drool and all and told the Kelpies a few home truths about their behaviour. The Kelpies, were all too anxious to explain themselves and try to wriggle out of any responsibility for my difficulties, but Billy wasn't listening. He lives by the credo that if there is to be any knocking down of Mum, he'll be the one doing it, and woe betide any other creature that tries. Needless to say I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and get up before I found myself in the middle of an energetic doggy debate on exactly who was to blame. Thankfully through all this time the worm chew remained untouched by all contenders and I was able to pick it up and give it to Juno while Dione and Billy continued their discussion.

I then painfully climbed up the steps only to discover Shadows chew lying on the tiles in a soggy, discarded heap while Shadow stood by doing her best to radiate an aura of innocence. I had to go through the whole Silky worming technique again and again! I'm in too delicate a condition to recount that worming exercise, but just let me say, it wasn't pretty :)

In Which We Once Again Visit My Toilet Habits

2010-06-11T09:15:00.000+10:00

I know I have posted before about the dangers of using our toilet. It's not that I'm obsessed or anything but just a warning. This post is going to be cover that topic yet again.

For those of you that are new to Life At Spring Rock our only toilet is located in the laundry which is outside our back door on the porch. All our dogs have tried to lay claim to it over the years. Some have been successful, some have had to wait for the another, tougher dog to die of old age, and some are still being kicked out whenever they put a toe over the threshold (Juno and Dione, the Kelpies, will never give up though - they've been trying unsuccessfully for over 12 years now). You can read about the wars for laundry domination here http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/01/battle-for-laundry-floor.html and the difficulties faced when using our facilities here http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/04/please-take-care-when-using-our.html

Once gain, it's all about Billy. I often tell him it's a good thing he's such a handsome fellow (just look at the photo above to see how gorgeous he is) because he certainly causes enough trouble in the menagerie.

Billy is now channelling his Swiss ancestors and enjoying the cooler weather, but he is becoming a bit of a problem in the laundry/toilet yet again. I suppose it all started when I had to push him out and close the door a couple of days ago while I was dyeing fabric. The laundry just isn't big enough for fabric, dyes, dye-pots and other dyeing paraphernalia, myself and one large St Bernard. As Billy has yet to master the art of fabric dyeing that meant he was the one who had to go. He tried closing his eyes so he couldn't see me pointing towards the door. Being deaf, this is his supreme weapon in the fight to do as he pleases and Billy uses it at every opportunity. Since being turfed out that day he's re-claimed the laundry as his territory and refuses to budge an inch when I want to use the facilities. Billy sprawls himself out the full length of the floor with the majority of his bulk right in front of the toilet, closes his eyes and assumes the look of an exhausted dog just catching up on some well earned sleep.

I get up at 6am. Well my body gets up, my brain takes another couple of hours to join it. Consequently I try to operate on autopilot until my brain catches up. Visiting the laundry used to be so simple I could do it with my eyes closed. Lately I've encountered acres of St Bernard almost wrapped around the toilet base and overflowing out far too far to manoeuvre around him. I tried, poking him with my foot, pushing him from one end or the other and just grumbling ineffectually to his deaf ears. Nothing worked. Billy stayed put and feigned sleep. I knew he wasn't really asleep because he wasn't snoring. In the end I practically had to do the splits to accomplish my mission - no mean feat when your brain is stuck in neutral. Billy didn't budge. At one stage while still trying to position myself so I wouldn't fall off, I trod on Billy's leg. Of course I apologised profusely - all Billy did was raise his head (giving the lie to being asleep), give me "That Look" and resumed his recumbent and possessive position around the toilet.

I found myself apologising to Billy and making a bigger effort to not disturb Billy's pretend slumber any further ("That Look" has that effect on me I'm afraid). One of these days I'm going to get a nasty injury trying to bend myself around Billy's recumbent figure while trying to use the toilet. I shudder at the imagined scene in Emerency at the local hospital as I explain how I sustained the injury.

All I could do this morning was grumble to myself that this wouldn't happen to Graeme.

Protective Custody Spring Rock Style

2010-06-02T07:52:00.001+10:00

Before I explain the title of this blog, Paula M asked: So the battle has been on-going for a couple of weeks now. Any sign of victory...for either side? My money is on the cat.

Well Paula, we have had some success, but the battle hasn't been won yet by any means. Ambrosia is jumping up less while we are around to do something about it, but we suspect she goes to town when we aren't in the house and sits on benches just to prove she can. The over worked water bottle has been brought into use yet again for a new reason though, and that brings me to the title of this blog.

Chocha, my usually very boring axolotl has been placed in maximum security protective custody

That's my very heavy marble pastry board on top of her tank.

Two nights ago, Ambrosia climbed on the box on the left side of this photo to have a drink of water. We keep a bowl of water near the cats' food and they get a drink of milk every morning because they are spoiled cats, but Ambrosia and Tristan prefer Axolotl flavoured water.   As a matter of fact all our cats have preferred axolotl flavoured water. Chocha, knowing her place in the food chain, has always shown good sense and stayed at the bottom of the tank doing her best submerged log impersonation and peace has reigned. Ambrosia would have her drink and hop down without another thought about why the water tasted so much better than the water bowl water.

Two nights ago Chocha proved herself to be the dumbest axolotl on earth. While Ambrosia was having her nightly drink of water Chocha could stand it no longer. She swam to the top of the tank and rubbed noses with Ambrosia. Ambrosia reacted just the way you'd expect a highly strung huntress to react. First she rose about three feet in the air, performed a very fine double twist while she was up there and finally landed on the floor with a startled expression that had me regretting I don't keep the camera strapped to my body. My next thought was that trouble was just around the corner and I was right.

Ambrosia sat down and had a little think about what had just passed. Her normally calm water tank has sprung to wet, slimy life and touched her nose. Ewww! Ewww! Ewww! She stopped thinking in order to give said nose a good scrub followed by a thorough washing then resumed thinking. Obviously there was something alive in her water tank. If that was the case it was also obviously prey! Why you ask? Because to a young Bengal cat if it moves its prey. It might be the play with it and stay friends type of prey (Nefertiti, Tristan and her favourite toy, The Christmas Duck)), play with it and feel superior because I am so much better at hunting than they are type prey (Graeme and me), catch it, wrestle it to the ground and never quite win, but never give up until Mum intervenes prey (the ferrets) or the very, very rare, if you can catch it you can chomp on it prey (mice, moths and other insects). Ambrosia suspected that this prey fell into the last category.

"Well now," we could see her thinking, "This is going to be FUN!!!" Ambrosia climbed back onto the box and began her hunt. This would take a bit of finesse. She began by just sitting there waiting patiently for Chocha to come back up and rub noses again. While Chocha may be the dumbest axolotl in the world she is not completely without self preservation instincts. She went back to her submerged log mode and kept her head low. Meanwhile, I removed Ambrosia from the box and told her her fish tank water drinking days were over. Ambrosia was no sooner on the floor that she'd jumped up on the box again. This time she knew she was going to be removed just as quickly so she dove her foot into the water trying to scoop Chocha out before she, Ambrosia, was removed to the floor once again. Chocha panicked, an emotion of which I thought an axolotl incapable, and swam to the top of the other end of the tank. "Right!!" thought Ambrosia as she was dragged away, "Progress is being made!"

I sacrificed my sandpaper board (used for tracing patterns onto fabric) and placed the Contact covered underside on top of the tank. This board is only made of sandpaper, cardboard and Contact so I wasn't hopeful that this would keep Ambrosia out. I advised Graeme to ready the water spray bottle that was closer to him than me (he's a better aim anyway) and the battle began.

At first Ambrosia inspected the board, sniffed it all over and decided it wasn't going to present much of a problem. From where I was sitting I too was inspecting it for weaknesses and I was inclined to agree with Ambrosia. I readjusted the end so that it was under the craft box's little overlap bit in an effort to stop the board simply being flipped off. Huh! Ambrosia wasn't going to try anything that delicate. She jumped on the long edge of the board sending it flying, rushed up onto the box again while Graeme was scrabbling for the spray bottle and tried to scoop Chocha out yet again. Water was everywhere, the spray bottle had been brought into play and little sprays of water marked the lounge chair, floor and craft box, Ambrosia's feet were wet and Chocha has actually managed to make a small wave that overflowed the top of the tank in her panic.

This problem was going to take more thought on my part. We needed either a new tank with a top on it or something heavy and waterproof to act as a top. We'd only been in town shopping that morning so we couldn't find anything permanent for another week when we go to town for our next weekly grocery shopping day. I sacrificed my marble pastry board. Graeme settled in on top of the tank while Ambrosia watched from the floor. I could see her little brain working out ways to dislodge this prey acquiring obstacle as well. As soon as the marble board was settled in place she jumped up and tried the same trick she'd used for the sandpaper board. No luck, also another jet of water streamed her way getting her right between the ears! Ambrosia eventually called it a night and took up a disgruntled position near the heater while she planned her next move, to be executed at a later date. Chocha returned to her normal routine of doing nothing and peace returned to our loungeroom.

Ambrosia is still considering her options. Why she has been adopted by a pair of prey loving humans she doesn't know. What she does know is that these humans are going to have to learn that this in now her house and all prey are hers by Divine Right. Until then she'll have to settle for swatting and wrestling the occasional ferret and making jungle cat growley noises while eating her canned cat food.

The Spray Bottle - The Natural Enemy of the Cat

2010-05-14T10:53:00.013+10:00

Things have become desperate here. Drastic action has had to be taken and Ambrosia is going to have a very damp time of it for a while. Nefertiti will most likely come in for some squirts too, but I doubt it will take long for her to learn her lesson and remain floor-bound from now on.

You see, Ambrosia is a jumper upper on tables, benches and bookcases. Worse still she is developing into a climber of shear surfaces. Any rock climber would be proud to have Ambrosia on his or her crew. She can climb surfaces that would leave just about anyone one else, not of the insect world, baffled. I have had cause to mention Ambrosia's, and to a lesser extent, Nefertiti's bad habit of stealing my sewing tools (see http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2010/03/quilter-seeking-quiet-place-to.html ). Ambrosia has now branched out to kitchen items, food left out and any other object not actually nailed or glued down. Nefertiti is led astray very easily and not being as fleet of foot as Ambrosia, is often the only one left at the scene of the crime to take the blame.

Ambrosia's predilection to jump up on flat surfaces began almost as soon as she settled into her new home on Spring Rock. At first a stern word from either myself, or an ever sterner word from Graeme was enough to make her feel abashed and have here heading floor-ward once again with a guilty look on her pretty face. There she would slink away and turn up somewhere where the guilty expression had changed to an innocent one that clearly said, “What? I’ve been here all the time. It must have been my wicked twin”

I have been lucky in my more than 50 years of cat owning (I’ve owned cats since the day I was born). Only once before in all that time have I owned an inveterate jumper upper on tables and benches. This cat was one of the cats I tried to hide in the kitchen cupboard of the flat we were renting (see http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2008/11/six-into-one-kitchen-cupboard-wont-go.html ). I found him just two weeks before we were due to leave the flat and move to the Southern Highlands to take up residence in the very first house we’d owned. He was skinny, dirty, very smelly and owing to a street cleaner truck catching him unawares, very, very wet. I found him on the artist Michelangelo’s birthday so of course named him Michelangelo. A very grand name for a very bedraggled cat.

Michelangelo couldn’t believe his luck. From the cold streets of Cabramatta where scraps were few and street cleaning trucks plenty, to a home with walls, ceilings, a heater and food to be had simply by jumping up on the table and helping oneself – life was definitely looking up. I put my taking in the stray down to the excitement of having my own land around me and being able to reclaim Christie, my pinto pony and fill the acre and three bedroom house with pets. Graeme put it down to a moment of madness on my part. He was to learn as the years passed that if a stray and I were to encounter each other, and Graeme wasn’t there to hold me back, the stray soon became a member of our family.

At the time I already had three cats in residence. Three beautifully behaved ladylike cats who wouldn’t jump on a table or bench top to save their lives. Sapphire, Topaz and Ophelia were often left inside while I had some sort of food thawing out or cooling down on the kitchen bench top. It never occurred to me that any one of them might be a thief and all three deserved the trust I placed in them. Michelangelo took the first opportunity to hunt down a chicken I was thawing out the day after he arrived. He then had a quiet talk to the girls and showed them just how easy it was to claim their own food in a similar way.

The girls were easily convinced to go back to their angelic ways – they felt a bit guilty stealing food, no matter what Michelangelo said about “to the hunter go the spoils”. It just wasn’t worth the stern words and slightly smacked bottom they received when I caught them. (The smack was much more of an indignity than painful.) Of course, once Michelangelo had brought the captured bounty to the floor, the girls had no prick of conscience and tucked in with gusto. Michelangelo on the other hand, who never forgot the lean years continued to be untrustworthy around food. I ended up re-training myself rather than the cat. No food was left out, things were thawed in the turned off oven and the spoils the hunter acquired became virtually no-existent. That was all back in the 1970’s. Michelangelo has long been just a wonderful memory and many cats have lived and sadly died with me since.

As the years went on, I forgot about jumping cats and slowly food began being left out for various reasons. Then along came Ambrosia. Ambrosia has no excuse for thieving. Unlike Michelangelo, she has never known a hungry day. The worst that has happened to Ambrosia is that she may have gone to the dry cat food bowl only to find it empty and had to find me and demand it be filled.

Sadly, removing all food had no effect on Ambrosia’s climbing ambitions. In a house where food in no longer left out she is reduced to jumping up to knock over vases, attack the dried flower arrangements in them, bat ornaments off shelves to see what happens when they hit the floor and of course, that old standard, stealing quilting tools. She climbs vertical surfaces of kitchen cabinets and linen cupboard shelves. Yesterday she hit a personal best in climbing (possibly a cat world record, but I don’t have the details to hand to claim that record as yet). She began the day by climbing onto the bathroom window sill (about six feet off the ground), knocking over the little vase on the vanity on her way down. She then moved into the kitchen, climbed the vertical cliff that is the kitchen cabinets (don’t ask me how I wasn’t there to witness the beginning of this event, just the disastrous consequences), arrived at the top of the cupboards and knocked off one of my decorative tea pots, smashing the teapot I actually use that was sitting on the bench below and chipping a bit off the spout of the decorative, handmade pottery one. She also sent egg cartons (empty thankfully) and a wire chook flying across the room. By the time I rushed to the kitchen to investigate the racket Ambrosia was nowhere to be seen. She still continues to deny any involvement in the mayhem. Nefertiti was sitting on my lap at the time, so has an iron clad alibi and there were no other pets in the house at the time, no matter what Ambrosia says about seeing ferrets in the kitchen. Ambrosia also suggests that a very localised earth quake (just over the cabinets) must be responsible. From the kitchen she moved to the hall, and finding the linen cupboard door not completely closed, climbed to the very top shelf, right up there near the ceiling and proceeded to move to the back of the shelf, knocking aside the boxes and paraphernalia that we store up there. These of course came crashing down to the floor, once again bringing me hot foot to the scene of the crime. Ambrosia had a hard time denying this one because when I arrived she was standing on the top shelf, looking down at her handiwork.

Later, I moved to the bedroom to have my much needed afternoon lie down and Ambrosia and Nefertiti followed as usual. Nefertiti settled down on my stomach as usual but Ambrosia kept busy finding as much mischief as the bedroom could provide. And the bedroom could provide a surprising amount of mischief for one little determined cat! I spent the first half of my rest jumping up and saving various items around the room, removing an indignant Bengal cat from behind owl collections, on top of a stack of books, inside my cupboard (if she can get a paw in she can slide the door open) and being stuck between the bed head and the wall. Nefertiti joined in the fun after just a short time of watching Ambrosia’s determined effort to reduce the room to rubble. I ended up putting them on their bed in the bathroom and closing the door on them. This wasn’t the end of the trouble though. From time to time I’d hear a muted bang or other noise that needed investigating. I finally decided that there was nothing in there that they could damage and went back to reading my book and ignoring the sounds emanating from the bathroom.

I am now taking action. I have placed three spray bottles around the house in strategic spots, ready to be brought into action whenever needed. Ambrosia first encountered the spray bottle when it was looking decidedly innocent - just sitting on my sewing table minding its own business. Ambrosia decided it was harmless enough and returned to her nefarious ways. She soon found out the purpose of this little bottle.

As of this moment Ambrosia has experienced the effects of being squirted with a stream of water and she doesn’t like it. Unfortunately she has shown no signs of ceasing her dastardly jumping and climbing habits, but I live in hope. Stealth is the supreme weapon in this war. If she sees or hears me coming she is down off whatever piece of furniture she shouldn’t be on and streaking off to hide elsewhere until the spray bottle once again returns to its dormant state.

Now all I have to do is train Graeme in the art of stealth squirting.

Note the alert expression – ready to flee at the first sign the bottle is about to start something.

Morning Mysteries

2010-04-26T07:59:00.003+10:00

This is the scene after a bit of tidying up was done (we had to be able to reach the toilet after all). And to think that I'd given the laundry a thorough clean up just that day!

Today began with a mystery. I was woken around 5.30 this morning by the sound of mini galloping. I lay in my warm bed for a while rifling through options in my head. Possums on the roof (no, we have a tin roof and this wasn't a metallic sound). Something that Tristan had caught escaped and he was now chasing it around the house - possibly, but there was only one set of footsteps and they sounded a lot lighter and faster than our large orange cat. A very miniature horse race being held in my house with fairies as jockeys? - Wake up Rosemary!!!! As the galloping came close to my side of the bed yet again (whatever it was seemed to be doing laps of the bedroom) I put my hand down to catch whatever it was and believe it or not I did catch it. I lifted the body up off the floor and tried to figure out what it felt like. I'm not the best at 5.30am so it took a while. Thankfully it wasn't a rat accidentally released by Tristan, or a wild possum that had got inside. It would have been better if these possibilities had gone through my head before I picked up whatever this furry body was. Then my brain clicked into gear and I realised I was holding a ferret. Obviously one of the female ferrets because it was a sable ferret. Whether it was Jocie or Cecilia I couldn't tell. It was too dark to sort out the slightly different face markings.

Well, that was easily dealt with. I dragged myself out of bed, mumbling to Graeme who had just come to, that I had a ferret and was returning it to its indoor cage in the kitchen. Graeme left me to it and and went back to sleep. I returned the disgruntled ferret to its cage and performed a cursory check of the cage for the escape route but couldn't find one anywhere. To prove there was no escape route from the ferret cage, all four ferrets are still in there a couple of hours later. If there was a way out Jocie and/or Cecilia would have used it by now. That was mystery number one.

I then decided to visit the toilet while I was up. I went outside to the laundry (where we keep our only toilet) and met the second mystery of this very early morning. The laundry was A MESS! Chaos reigned supreme. No dogs were to be found anywhere - I suspect they'd taken to the hills when they heard me in the kitchen, and I don't blame them. If they had been anywhere in sight serious questions would have been asked, and one thing my dogs don't like is me asking them serious questions. They have to go to the trouble of putting on their sorry faces, hanging their heads and trying to look innocent all at the same time. That's no easy feat that early in the morning.

I surveyed the chaos. The bin had been upturned, emptied and its contents strewn around the room. The top of the bin was missing in action (Graeme located it under the rubble when he got up this morning). The vinyl cover over the dryer had been pulled off and the various bottles and jars I keep on top were in the strangest places you could imagine, three heavy boxes stacked on each other and holding my hand dyeing equipment had been moved out from the wall and the top box was now tottering precariously, threatening to add its contents to the already overloaded floor, the large bag of kitty litter was dragged out from under the sink but otherwise unmolested, the cat food bin was barely jostled. This is a mystery in itself because all three dogs love dry cat food and if they were going to this much trouble to create a mess, surely they'd take the time to tip the bin over and eat the contents. It wouldn't be the first time they'd raided the cat food after all .

And most mysteriously of all the cardboard box of tinned dog food had been dragged to the middle of the room and chewed down to the level of the remaining tins. Why had the dogs mauled the cardboard box? Had they had an attack of the munchies during the night and ignored the cat food and had a craving for cardboard? Had the box in some way offended them and they reacted violently? Had they taken time out from their nefarious night time destruction and absent-mindedly gnawed on the box while plotting their next move? It appears that they actually ate some of the cardboard because there wasn't enough cardboard litter on the floor to match the amount missing from the box as far as I could see. Then again there was so much that was on the floor I might have missed it.

I stood there for a few minutes trying to get my brain to make sense of this. Unfortunately I can't make sense of anything during an ordinary morning, let alone all that lay scattered before me! My brain just whirred with useless ideas like they'd chased a mouse, a possum had got into the laundry and they chased it (I don't know why I kept coming back to possums - we've never had one close to the house in the 13 years we've lived here, but possums kept intruding anyway), there had been a mini tornado, or possibly a very concentrated earth quake isolated to the laundry had struck. An intruder had come along and looking for our valuables in the laundry rather than the house had created the mess and the dogs were off chasing him - that would explain the lack of dogs on the back porch at this time of morning at least. But none of these scenarios explained the chewed dog food box. It occurred to me that maybe I needed to go back to bed and think about this when I could think clearly in an hour or two.

I returned to bed, told Graeme what I'd found and then lay there wide awake, questions whirling like dervishes in my mind. He just grunted once or twice, so I told him I hadn't cleaned it up yet because I just wasn't up to it at this time in the morning. Another grunt greeted that statement. I get up at 6am anyway, so I got up ready to start my day. My mind kept going over possible explanations, but other than you never know what my menagerie is going to throw at me, I couldn't find any rational explanation for this morning.

Graeme thinks the escaped ferret (no theory on how she escaped though) ran out the open front door (we leave it open at night so Tristan can come and go as he pleases), around the house, up the porch steps to the laundry at the back, ignoring the fact that it was full of dogs, caught the dogs' attention, they chased it around the laundry (in complete silence!?) until it finally escaped unscathed and then ran back to the front of the house, inside the front door, threw a right into our bedroom and started doing victory laps until I caught it. It seems Graeme can't cope with two different mysteries this early in the morning and has to combine them to explain both. He won't be swayed from this theory, even though, once again the chewed box isn't explained, nor the scattered bin contents for that matter.

I am a bit worried about Graeme. It seems the animals are finally getting to him.

Winter Is Almost Here

2010-04-25T08:02:00.000+10:00

Billy and Shadow. Billy is about to bowl Shadow over so he can sniff her thoroughly. Shadow is not going to enjoy the process.

Looking back through my old stories (the ones I wrote before I began to blog), I came across this one from long ago. Many of the pets in this story are no longer with us, and new pets have arrived, but strangely little else in the story has changed. I now bring the ferrets inside during winter so I don't worry about them feeling too chilly (this has brought about a new set of logistic problems), Mum-Puss and her combative family are no longer with us to battle at dinner time, TOD the duck has gone to ducky heaven and the new breed of chooks are less panicky and therefore less interesting too Billy. Still, I thought you might enjoy reading about the menagerie way back when.

Winter is here at last. The days are getting shorter, the air has that sparkling, icy-misty look that only freezing winter days can produce and the countryside is finally turning green after months of brown. The reason I’m waxing lyrical about the cold weather is that winter is my favourite time of the year. In my opinion the only good thing about summer is the cricket matches. Take that away and all I’m left with is a menagerie of over heated animals all vying for the prime piece of real estate on the kitchen floor under the air conditioning duct.

In winter my thoughts turn to keeping the now decidedly chilly menagerie warm. The ferrets bring new worries as the days grow colder. They no longer lie in their cage looking like they are at their last gasp, rather they hibernate in their quilted polar fleece sleeping bag, coming out only to have dinner, seek the warmer climes of the house or, during one of Billy’s assaults on their cage, threatening to give Billy the thrashing of his life, if only he’d show some spunk and come into their cage and say that! I have now added a hand spun, hand woven woollen table runner I made years ago during my spinning and weaving phase, to their bedding. This entails going out into the freezing back yard, well after the sun has set, quietly opening the cage door, feeling around for the table runner without disturbing the sleeping furry ones and tucking them in for the night. If I disturb them Miette will come struggling out of the sleeping bag to find out what is going on in the hope that it’s Billy coming to start something. When she sees it’s only me, she’s perfectly happy to settle in for a chat. Persuading her to return to bed so I can go back into the warm house, is a lost cause. There’s nothing to be done but, return to the house and have another go in half an hour – when the night air will be even chillier. If I am very careful, I manage to tuck them in without disturbing the sociable Miette and once this little chore has been done, I go back inside with a clear conscience with only the duck and galahs to worry about. So far I haven’t figured out a way to keep these feathered pets any warmer than they can keep themselves. Graeme assures me that the ferrets have thick winter coats to insulate them against much colder weather than any Australia can throw at them. He also says that the quilted sleeping bag with two layers of polar fleece and two layers of batting would be enough to keep me warm should I want to spend the night outside. This could sounds like a veiled threat, but I’m too busy sorting out the cats to give it much attention.

Mum-Puss, Lancelot and Guinevere have different needs when the weather turns chilly. They spend their summer days lying on the kitchen floor within close proximity to the fridge and freezer’s cold blasts of air – always providing that Billy isn’t having an inside day. If Billy is amongst those present, the cats retire to the dining room, an extension off the kitchen with only the metal strip where the vinyl and carpet meet to indicate where the kitchen stops and the dining rooms begins, to poke their collective tongues out at Billy who’s not allowed to put one paw onto the carpet. Their winter days are spent following the sun around the lounge room carpet and cuffing any other cat who seems to have a better bit of sun. I repeatedly tell Mum-Puss that she is in dire need of parenting classes. “No mother worth her salt,” I say to Mum-Puss, “digs her claws into one of her children because it has the softer chair or warmer patch of carpet.” Mum-Puss glares at me with her one beady eye and asks for help disengaging her claw that seems to have somehow become hooked into the body of her daughter or son.

Now don’t imagine for a second that Lancelot and Guinevere are the innocent parties in all this. They have far too much of their mother in them to be above such things as starting fights with mother or sibling just for the sheer hell of it. Their combative natures have led them to developed a very subtle way of letting me know it’s dinner time. For some unfathomable reason, as soon as 4.30 p.m. rolls around, the cat version of World War III begins in whatever room has more than one cat in it and progresses throughout the house until they arrive in whatever room I may be. One minute all three cats are the picture of domestic bliss. Three little furry bodies intertwined in shades of black, white and grey lying on their pillows in front of the heater with not a thought in their heads except familial love. As soon as the clock indicates the dinner hour is approaching the peaceful scene is shattered with snarling, scratching and the most foul cat language you have ever heard. Heavens knows what it is they are saying to one another, but whatever it is it’s guaranteed to be R-rated! It’s times like this that I’m grateful I’m mono-linguistic. All this aggression disappears as soon as dinner is on the table (or in the cat’s case on the floor). Each cat has its own bowl and own space on the plastic place mat. Dishing out the food is an exact science. Others have tried but failed to master the intricate pattern required for all three cats to get their fair share of food while keeping peace in the feline community. I won’t go into the lengthy description of how to successfully feed the family, buy suffice to say it’s taken quite a while to perfect. Once the three tummies are full of the tinned food du jour they return to their fireside pillow, intertwine themselves once again and settle in for the night. Ah peace at last. The Spring Rock Terrors have settled down for the night and won’t return until 4.30 tomorrow afternoon. Now all I have to contend with is Billy’s Winter Pass Times.

Billy, ever true to his Swiss heritage, is in his element in the winter time. This unfortunately means that while the rest of the pets are only interested in finding sunny spots around the yard or house and hibernating until summer, Billy is at his metabolic peak resulting in excess energy and mischief making. He spends his days between terrorising the chooks, stalking TOD, our drake and seeking out other less than desirable (from my point of view) ways of amusing himself.

The chook/duck chasing isn’t too bad when compared to his other pastimes. The hens are safely tucked away in their chook pen with seven or eight feet high wire between them and Billy, but this simple matter of logic hasn’t occurred to them yet. As soon as Billy begins his mad run from the back porch down to the chook yard, ears and jowls flopping as he goes, the chooks begin their crazy, panicked flight to anywhere other than where they are. Given that we have nine hens and one rooster, a fair bit of the chook pen is taken up with chooks when they are as we might term “at rest”. Therefore when these chooks (and rooster) begin literally flapping about they tend to ricochet off each other, the chook wire, hen house and the odd tree in their yard. This in turn causes them to panic further, taking fright at the sight of each other panicking and so on. It’s my belief that one day they will end up bouncing off each other and the various objects in their yard ad infinitum. Add to this TOD’s mini-panic on the outside of the chook yard and our winter back yard is definitely not a peaceful refuge for the summer haters among us.

When Billy’s other winter past time is considered though, I’d choose the panicking chooks and drake any day. With the longer nights Billy has searched for a new form of amusement that can be safely conducted from the confines of the back porch. He’s tried bowling Shadow, the Silky Terrier Type, over and sniffing her from head to tail while she’s in her prone condition. Needles to say Shadow doesn’t take this lying down – well actually she does take it lying down, but as soon as she can get up she takes her little fluffy dog revenge, bailing Billy up against the porch wall while snapping and snarling to let Billy know how she feels about his new found past-time. Billy, squashed against the wall, looking down at the little ball of fury, has all the appearance of a bully brought to book for his sins, promising never to harm undersized little dogs again.

Eventually, Billy turned to other, less risky ways of passing his winter nights. Billy has taken up singing, or in light of his Swiss ancestors, possibly yodelling. Now you’d be forgiven in thinking he’d be a baritone – what with the size of him and all, but no, Billy is a male soprano. He sits on the back porch yipping and howling to his heart’s content, happy in the knowledge that not only is he enjoying his own musical interlude, but he is bringing a little joy into the cold winter nights for his family. It’s obvious that Billy sees us in his mind’s eye sitting in our lounge room, tenderly smiling at each other while commenting on the beautiful musical tones emanating from Billy’s oversized lungs. Billy is so sure that we are as happy about his new-found talent as he is. When one of us goes outside to let Billy know our true feeling about his impromptu recital he turns towards us, leaves off his singing often mid yodel, and invites whichever music lover in his family who has come outside, to join in. The hurt look on his face when growled at to be quiet is truly heart rending. Maybe with a professional’s help, just maybe we could turn those teeth grating yowls to something bearable?

I’m off now to go and look through phone books to try to find coaches for Swiss yodelling.

A Great Visit Was Had By All (Except The Tigers)

2010-04-11T07:30:00.000+10:00

Bec and the boys have been visiting for a few days. They've gone home now so I get more computer time, but really I'd rather have more grandchildren time if I could. We filled the days with lots of thing to do and seemed to be busy nearly all the time. There was so much to do and so little time to fit it all in.

We all had a wonderful time feeding lambs, making interesting things, collecting eggs, going for walks to see the new lambs out in the paddock with their mums and generally enjoying farm life. Ethan, (aged 3) is almost physically incapable of passing a large piece of farm equipment without getting into it. Liam (aged 2 and a bit) is happy to follow and Michael (aged 5) likes to keep his options open, sometimes choosing to climb aboard and sometimes content to watch from the ground. Ethan quickly attaches himself to the wheel of whatever piece of machinery he is in and proceeds to "drive" it. Unlike a lot of little boys he doesn't bother with revving motor noises, he just enjoy the experience of being the tractor, header or truck driver, inspecting all the levers and pedals, trying them out to see if they can be moved and discussing the uses of most of them with me. To tell the truth I don't know what half of them do, but Ethan doesn't mind if I don't know, he makes his own speculations about their purpose and we are both happy to accept that they do whatever he believes it is that they do.

Michael driving the big tractor. (I couldn't find one of Ethan or Liam too)

On the last visit here Ethan and I were sitting in one of the tractors admiring all the bits and pieces when he asked me if we could start the tractor up. I said no or course. Ethan then asked why, of course, and I responded that I didn't know how to drive it. Ethan looked at me with his serious little face and said, "That's OK, I know how to drive it. Granddad taught me last time we were here." Well, how do you respond to that statement?

Meanwhile back to this visit. On Thursday night Bec offered to cook dinner for us all. Liam was feeling irritable while dinner was cooking and nothing would make him happy. There was no particular reason for the bad mood, just the general bad mood toddlers seem to adopt the minute Mum is busy cooking dinner. Seeing that Bec had taken over the kitchen, I lifted Liam onto my hip and took him outside to distract him for a while -that was my contribution to dinner preparation. Ethan decided he'd like to come along too. Michael was very busy saving turtles on a computer game and couldn't take time out from his mercy mission to go with us. We put our farm boots on and I switched on the outside light. We wandered down to the ferrets to get them out of bed so we could say hello. Horton just raised his head out of the hammock, looked at us for a second out of bleary eyes and went back to sleep. The others thought there might be a game in this and came out of the hammock ready for fun even though the sun had gone down a while ago and it was past their bedtime. Liam and Ethan had a great time talking to the ferrets. They both like the ferrets as long as they have some bars between them and the little rogues and watching their antics. The ferrets love all the grandchildren. They are closer to their size, scream deliciously when pursued by a feisty little ferret and generally add to the excitement level of any play time the ferrets have, so they were very pleased to see the two boys and try to initiate games from the wrong side of the cage bars.

Once Liam had enough of the ferrets we returned to the house, but instead of going inside and finding Liam's bad mood again, we sat on the back steps until dinner was announced to be ready. Billy was on the top step and welcomed us with lots of paws on the shoulders and sniffing of the back of our heads. Drool was shared too, but we won't dwell on that. Ethan is fine with Billy but Liam is still a little scared of him, so I kept my back to Billy with Liam on my lap. It worked well. Liam was happy not to be looking at all that dog and Billy was happy to share some quality time with his beloved short people.

We sat quietly for a while,or as quietly as you can when Billy is amongst those present, looking at the stars and watching the ferrets make their way back to bed. We discussed the stars (Ethan estimates there are about 100 stars in the night sky), aeroplanes that looked like stars and how dark it was out there. After a short while Ethan went very quiet and sort of hunched over a bit. I looked over at him and was just about to ask what was wrong when he looked at me very seriously and said, "I hope some tigers don't get us."

The relief on his face when I told him there were no tigers in Australia except in zoos was a sight to see. He straightened up, smiled and enjoyed the rest of our time sitting on the steps. We discussed what night time animals lived on the farm and he was perfectly happy to share the night with possums, owls and bats. When I thought about it later, I realised what a faithful little boy he is. He honestly thought there was a chance that tigers would come out of the dark and get us, yet he sat on the steps to keep me company. He didn't cry or carry on in anyway or run inside at the first opportunity to abandon me. He sat tight and worried about tigers instead. Now that's love!

Quilter, Seeking Quiet Place To Recuperate Mentally

2010-03-24T20:37:00.002+11:00

What do all these things have in common and why are they driving me crazy? Read on and find out.

Ambrosia is trying to drive me crazy. I don't know why she's set herself this goal, but the evidence is irrefutable. The trouble is I think she's succeeding.

For those of you who haven't met Ambrosia and her sister (by adoption) Nefertiti, you can read about them here. http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2010/01/introducing-ambrosia-and-nefertiti.html

My granddaughter Claire has moved into her Big Girl's Bed and of course needs a quilt to go on it. On Saturday night, when I was frantically trying to get Claire's quilt finished to give to her on Sunday when we attended her baby sister's Christening, I searched for my thread conditioner in the little blue box (Thread Heaven it's called). I knew that the chances were pretty good that Ambrosia and once again failed to resist the lure of the little blue box and pilfered it. I finally found it under the chair I sit on to hand sew my quilts. I put it on the table beside my sewing chair in the lounge room (I was watching television while sewing) and got back to what I was doing. I needed to go get the cream thread from the sewing room to sew on the label. I was sewing the label before I'd finished all the binding because it would be more difficult to sew down the label in the car as we travelled up to see the grandchildren on Sunday. I knew there was no way I'd get the quilt finished on Saturday night. If I'd known the whole night would turn into one unsuccessful treasure hunt I may have given up there and then and gone to bed with an icepack on my head. I put the thread on the table near my chair and then had to go do something else (I can't remember what - I was doing a number of things at the same time as usual). When I returned to my chair I couldn't find the thread anywhere. I checked under the chair, inside the chair, back to the sewing room in case I'd absent mindedly put it down in there. I looked everywhere it could possibly be and some places it couldn't possibly be, but it was nowhere to be found. I spent a lot of precious sewing time looking for the thread and finally decided it would be a lot faster to just go get another spool of a close enough colour.

I got another greyish cream thread, settled down to sew the label on and turned to get the thread conditioner from the table. It wasn't there!!!. Holding on tightly to the spool of thread (I wasn't going to risk losing a second one!) I searched all the places I'd just searched for the thread with just as much success. By this time I was sure I was going mad. I told Graeme the sad truth about my sanity and he mumbled something I couldn't hear - most probably that I'd been mad for years in his opinion, but as I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying and I was preoccupied with planning a nice long stay somewhere quiet while my brain recovered, I didn't take issue with whatever it was he said. I just didn't have the time at the moment to debate the exact date I'd lost the plot in his opinion. Besides he might have mumbled something complementary about my mental state. Yes, that was obviously what he was doing right?

Even though I remembered putting both the cream thread and the Thread Heaven on the table, the table was definitely cream thread and Thread Heaven free. Luckily I had a spare unopened box of Thread Heaven I'd been saving for when the one I was using was all used up, so I opened that and finally got the label sewn on. The rest of the night's sewing remained uneventful. I didn't leave my chair for anything though, I wasn't going to risk coming back and finding some other sewing item had fallen into the black hole located somewhere near my sewing chair. Neither missing object appeared throughout the night.

When I'd finally decided that it was bedtime and I couldn't possibly sew another stitch, I put Ambrosia and Nefertiti in the bathroom for the night as usual. I usually just pop them into the dark room and close the door quickly so I don't end up chasing them around the house after they've escaped. We've had quite a few rodeos lately when they've managed to see my intent before I picked them up. They bounce off the walls, skidding along the kitchen floor, scoot into the lounge room to hide under furniture and generally manage to evade my attempts to grab them. But I digress.

I went to bed still thinking about mental therapy options. The next morning when Graeme was in the bathroom he came out with a spool of cream thread. He told me that I'd put the thread on the vanity unit last night and walked away without it. I was 100% sure I didn't go into the bathroom after I'd picked up the thread last night, but who can tell. When you are going crazy, blank spots are as common as hallucinations. Ambrosia, who was sitting on my lap at the computer, assumed her most innocent face and changed the subject as soon as she could. Then it was my turn to visit the bathroom and there, beside the cats' bed, was my little blue box of Thread Heaven. All was explained!

I knew Ambrosia had turned into a sewing tools thief but I'd thought I'd checked all the likely places she'd hide her ill gotten gains. The bathroom never occurred to me. I am continually pulling pins out of her mouth as she tries to make a get away with a mouth full of glass head pins. She will steal my scissors if she thinks she can get away with it. The reason the Thread Heaven was under the chair is that she loves to lift it from my table, jump to the floor an bat it around in her spare time and my thimbles are number her one great game. She climbs onto my chair and delicately picks the thimbles up in her teeth, drops to the floor, spits out the thimble, and the game begins. Nefertiti will then join in the improvised football (or is it hockey, I can't figure out the rules so I'm not sure) game as I chase them through the house trying to get my hands on my thimble before it disappears under the fridge or some other large furniture item. Ambrosia and Nefertiti are happy for me to join in the game as long as I don't actually manage to get hold of the thimble. I just don't play by their rules and they know if I manage to snag the thimble that will be the last they see of it until Ambrosia can sneak up and steal it once again. They are very fast and very talented kittens when it comes to thimble football (or hockey as the case may be) and I now have three thimbles missing in action.

Hmmm, there seems to be a trend here. Is it possible that Ambrosia is stockpiling sewing notions because she's planning a quilt of her own? I'll have to keep an eye on her. After all she knows where I keep my stash!

Rain!

2010-03-08T10:26:00.003+11:00

Spring Rock all bright and shiny after the rain.

As I may have mentioned a few times in the last few years, we are in drought. Well hopefully that is no longer true. We have had RAIN!!! Well, we've had more rain in the last 24 hours than in the past five years if you ask me. Four inches of it yesterday alone. We had an inch the day before and considered ourselves lucky. Bec, Grant and their three boys were visiting this weekend and when the huge storm hit yesterday we all stood at windows just admiring the views of the water falling out of the sky and running along the roadways towards dams that really needed the water.

Our driveway just outside the gate to our carport.

Thankfully we are not in an area that ever floods. There are no creeks or rivers close by. Yesterday our paddocks made rivers of their own and they are still flowing this morning. There are serious floods throughout Queensland at the moment and my heart goes out to everyone affected. You can read about the Queensland flood here http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/queensland/damage-from-southwest-queensland-floods-to-become-clearer-as-waters-recede/story-e6freoof-1225837963854

Being a country girl through and through, I've always loved rain and all my kids have the same happy feeling whenever rain happens. Bec was once flooded in after a camp in Queensland. She told me everyone was depressed or worried about getting out and driving home. All except her. It was raining so Bec was feeling happy.

All our dams are full and overflowing. They form a continuous river from dam to dam and then onto the neighbour's dam and then across the road out of our farm. The dirt road from our farm to the tarred road into town is badly washed away. It's more just rocks and potholes now all the dirt and grit has been washed away. Our own farm roads are in a dreadful state as well. I doubt the road that leads out to our neighbour's farm is usable any more because it was already in a bad state pre-rain. Graeme will do a tour of the farm and assess what needs fixing as soon as the rain ends and he can move around the farm.

The dams are full. This dam was all but empty yesterday.

Having said all this, I'm not complaining. The rain will give our crops a big kick along when they are planted later this month or early April. The soil will hold a lot of this moisture until then.

We had to drive to the next major town (normally a two hour drive from Spring Rock) last night to deliver a Suffolk ram to a truck driver who will take the ram onto the farm where he is to live and love from now on, this morning. We travelled through a lot of flooded roads on the way there. On the way back we were stopped by various emergency services to check which way we were going because the highway was impassable in places. We go to our turn off and we were stopped by another emergency crew who almost caused an accident themselves. They were parked on the side of the road facing the oncoming traffic with ALL their lights on. High beam, driving lights and emergency lights plus their blinking lights on top of the car which we could hardly see with all the other lights. to make matters worse, I could just make out the reflective bands on the men's coats and they were wandering all over the road!! Graeme was blinded by the light and had to navigate his way through flooded sections of road with the lights blazing in his eyes. When he finally reached the car and crew he suggested (rather strongly) that they turn off the majority of the lights. The fellow talking to Graeme was very good about it. He realised their mistake and told someone to turn off the lights straight away. I felt so sorry for all these men and women through out the district standing out in the weather that alternated between rain and downpours stopping every car and working so hard for the safety of others.

We were able to continue home - the road straight ahead was impassable - and again had to navigate through flooded water with small logs floating by. We got through all that and found the final tar road to our farm (the tar road that our dirt road leads off) was closed. The way was blocked with those saw horse like things that road crews use and the sign said closed. There was just no other way home because our only other, very long way home was impassable as we'd just learned. Graeme thought about it for a second and then drove around the barricade very slowly checking for problems all the way. We went through some more flooded sections, but with our four wheel drive and the ability to raise the car higher with air suspension, we didn't have any trouble getting through. The only danger was getting stuck in the water if the car stalled. It wasn't fast flowing water across the road, or even really deep water. It was run off from overflowing dams just like ours on the farm. Graeme is an ex rally driver so I wasn't worried. He had lots of experience driving through shallow water both still and flowing. We finally arrived home at 10 pm which means a four hour drive had turned into a six hour drive. Not bad we felt.

I had trouble getting out the back gate to take the photos. I could only open it a few inches. All this dirt has travelled down from the ram paddock behind the house.

While we were involved with all this, Bec and Grant were stopped on the highway heading for their home by an overturned truck on the highway. She ran about 6pm and the truck had overturned at 11.30am so you can imagine the size of the traffic jam! Their four and a half hour drive turned into an eight hour drive by the time they got home. I really pitied them. When I rang Bec to check she said Grant had heard about the road block on the two way radio so they stopped early and fed the kids at McDonald's. She said the boys inhaled their cheese burgers and looked around for more food. When I rang her they were stopped along the highway along with many, many other cars and the worst news was - she'd run out of food!!! Bec always packs fruit and nibbles for the boys for these long journeys but they'd cleaned her out long before they reached home. Five year old Michael is going through a growing spurt and eats a phenomenal amount for his age. Three year old Ethan is pretty good and putting food away too. Bec rang and left a message on the answering machine at 10pm to tell me they'd arrived home safely. We must have just missed her call when we arrived home.

Meanwhile Justin rang to tell us that he had stalled the car in a flooded area of the road near where he lives. He'd been driving through with no problems when a log floated by. He had to slow down drastically to avoid hitting it and he'd lost his bow wave, causing water to get into his engine. He was ringing to see if Graeme could tow him out. We were well and truly on our way in the opposite direction so we couldn't help out. I rang him back later and he didn't answer the phone so of course I started to worry about him (along with worrying about Bec and family locked in a huge traffic jam with three little boys in the storm). I was also worried about leaving the Suffolk ram all by himself in a yard designed for cattle rather than sheep and Tristan the ginger cat who was out and about when all the storms hit. I sorted all my worries, prioritised them (I'm nothing if not organised!) and decided Justin was the major worry at the moment. I rang Bec, who had texted me to tell me she was stuck in the traffic jam, so I could give Justin time to do whatever he was doing (hopefully not floating away in his car). Bec and I chatted for a short while and then I rang Justin again. He had been towed out of the flood but he couldn't get his car started. He and Graeme discussed various ways of getting the car started again and later Justin rang to say he was home safe. So my two biggest worries were allayed. Now just the ram, Tristan and getting home safely to go.

As you can see we arrived home safely, Tristan almost met us at the door and spent the night inside wishing he was outside (Tristan can't stand to be on the other side of any door) and we haven't heard from the truck driver to say the ram escaped, so I believe all is well there too.

I just hope that everyone else in our district fared well too.

The sheep are enjoying the sunshine this morning.

Oh I Wish I'd Been There

2010-02-21T07:47:00.000+11:00

Oh, if only I'd been there and had a camera with me! All I can do is relate the story and fill in the missing details with what I know of rams. Graeme simply said, "The rams developed a strange disease today." Of course I asked what happened and he replied, "They had pink nose disease. They tried to eat the foam marker blobs." Graeme's attempt at a joke.

A little further questioning gave me the full story...

We had some very welcome rain last week - nearly 2 inches in the old measure 48mm in the new. Of course, while the dams, house tanks and garden all rejoiced, so did the weeds in the paddocks. So Graeme is now spraying weeds. To do this he pulls a spray cart along behind the tractor. On top of the tank that holds the spray is a smaller tank that holds super soapy foam marker. Graeme uses fluro pink. The foam maker has long arms the width of the spray boom and drops blobs of this bright pink foam at regular intervals to mark where the tractor has been so that Graeme can line up the tractor's next pass with the blobs so doesn't miss any of the paddock or respray parts that have been done.

Yesterday Graeme sprayed the paddock the rams are in cleaning up the lupin stubble. As he sprayed the bright pink foam dropped behind him. The rams, who have been fed lupins out of a drum on the back of a tractor from time to time, must have decided that Graeme had changed their diet to include some pretty pink, fluffy food - fairy floss perhaps? A dessert maybe? While they'd never tried it before, they were sure it had to be better than the weeds, lupins and lupin stubble they were eating now because sheep always think something else is better than what they have. One by one they followed behind the tractor, dipping their noses into the foam, ready to experience a new taste sensation and one by one the rams emerged with bright pink fluff on their noses. Sheep are not known for their intelligence. Well, to be truthful, sheep are known for their dumbness and White Suffolk rams hold up the tradition well. Each ram dipped his nose into the foam, was disappointed to find it tasted soapy, emerged with a vague, confused look and a pink fluffy nose and moved on to the next bright pink blob in the hopes that this one was the better tasting one. Meanwhile, the rams behind him decided that he'd most likely dipped his nose into a bad spot and inspected the blob for a tastier area. They too were disappointed, emerged with a nose decorated with the bright pink foam and moved onto the next blob already rejected by the first ram. With each visit to a new blob the rams came up for air with a slightly larger blob on their nose.

Now I need to mention here that these foamy blobs have more staying power than your average soap foam. In the cold weather these blobs in the paddocks can last up to two days. Each ram was decorated for quite some time with the blob and the wool around their nose was dyed a pretty shade of pink for quite a while to come. Of course our sale rams were among those inspecting the foam blobs. This story is going to have to be told over and over again to clients to explain the mysterious pink marks on their noses.

I wish I'd been there with a camera to record Graeme and the tractor being followed by a stately procession of rams all with pink fluffy mountains on their noses. After all who is going to believe me if I don't have pictorial evidence?

Spring Rock

2010-02-07T06:48:00.000+11:00

I was showing a dear friend some photos of Spring Rock yesterday and thought the rest of you might like to see where all the animal happenings take place.

The view from our ram paddock.

All these photos were taken before the drought. Spring Rock still looks a bit like this in early spring but the crops aren't looking quite as lush or the grass so tall and thick these days. Hopefully the drought will break soon and Spring Rock will be returned to all its glory.

The old sharefarmer's cottage. The middle bit was an extension built between the kitchen and living area (kitchen is on the left). A fierce wind knocked the extension down the day before this photo was taken. We've cleared away the rubble now.

The same paddock in summer and in spring. Even when not in drought, summers are brown and without rain here.

Sunset on Christmas Day 2008.

Our house front gate (the real front gate is 2 km south of here). The beautiful lemon scented gum died two years ago, a victim of the drought. It broke my heart to lose such a beautiful tree.

You should all recognise this one. This is our windmill paddock with the canola in full bloom and a storm approaching. Oh they were the days!

The sale rams enjoying being let onto the feed wheat.

This is a dual purpose wheat. After the rams have eaten it down they were removed to another paddock and the wheat left to regrow and the grains develop. We then harvested the wheat in summer

So now you can all see how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful part of the world. I count living here as one of the true blessings in my life.

Introducing Ambrosia and Nefertiti

2010-01-19T08:52:00.002+11:00

Ambrosia & Nefertiti Spring Rock's menagerie's latest additions.

Nature abhors a vacuum and Spring Rock abhors a lack of cats. After I recovered a bit from the very sad loss of my two beloved cats, Lancelot and Guinevere, I realised that Tristan was now an only cat. While Graeme was more than fine with this, Tristan felt lonely. At first Tristan spent his days searching the house for his two old sparing partners and couldn't figure out what I'd done with them. He tried all sorts of tricks to get them to come out and swat him, but the lounge room remained Lancelot and Guinevere-less. Life became a lot more boring for Tristan.

I began my kitten search on the internet. Up until now the vast majority of my cats have just moved in on us. They have literally walked in off the street at times and set up house with us. Others have been given to me by friends who know what a push over I am for homeless cats with sad stories. I have wanted a Siamese cat ever since I was a child. I began my search only to find that there was no way I could afford even a pet quality cat, so I lowered my sights to searching for any cat in need of a home. In my search I also came across Bengal cats and they are another cat I've wanted for a while (if left to my own devices with unlimited money it's scary how many different cat breeds with which I'd fill my house!) but they cost even more than Siamese cats. I added my name to a Siamese rescue list and my one day learn of a Siamese cat close by who is in need of a loving home.

In the meantime found a cute little Siamese cross Moggy kitten in need of a good home. She was a dark tortoiseshell and looked nothing like a Siamese, but I made arrangements for my daughter Bec to pick her up and bring her down here when they visited at Christmas time. My big worry was that Michael and Ethan would end up loving her and want to keep her. I wouldn't have minded, but Bec would have! Bec, like her dad is not a cat person (but unlike her dad she is a dog and ferret person) and has a reasonably low opinion of cats. The kitten spent its stay at Bec's house in the en-suite where the boys visited her regularly and she meowed to be let out all the rest of the time. The kitten was imprisoned there for it's own good (sort of protective custody) because Bec's house is open plan with no way to stop the kitten getting downstairs and meeting their dogs, Charlie and Sam. Charlie is a Labrador who would like nothing more than to open the rumpus room door and get to know the kitten. Whether this would result in a firm friendship or a quick meal for Charlie, Bec didn't want to find out. The boys were constantly reminded that the kitten was Nana's just in case they forgot.

Michael, aged five, rang me to tell me the kitten had arrived safely. He was very excited and filled me in on every second of her stay at their house so far. I told him the kitten's name was Nefertiti. There was a long silence on Michael's end of the phone (a very rare occurrence all by itself!) and then in a quiet little voice he replied, "We'll call her puss." we moved on to other subjects less intimidating that pronouncing the name Nefertiti. By the time they arrived here she was well and truly Christened "Titi" by Ethan (aged three). As I said, Nefertiti looks nothing like a Siamese cat, but she knows the truth and so do I and that is all that counts.

While Bec was returning the kitten to the en-suite at regular intervals (the boys kept bringing her out to show her something in the house she just had to see), I was searching for a little friend for her. One kitten is a lonely thing, as I discovered when Tristan came to stay, two kittens are much better. They have each other to play with and can gang up on humans and older cats alike. It was meant to be! I found a Bengal kitten that was ridiculously cheap and it lived only 50kms from Spring Rock, in the town we do our weekly shopping! She was the last one left in the litter so I quickly laid claim to her and made arrangements to pick her up as soon as possible.

To say that Ambrosia was reluctant to change homes is an understatement. She had a blanket that came with her with her mother's and sibling's scent on it but this didn't make her feel one bit better. Ambrosia meowed this strange feral sounding meow all the way home, demanding that she be returned to her rightful home. Every now and then a pitiful little kitten meow would sneak in with a helpless little pleading edge to it. These meows tore at my heartstrings and I felt very guilty about my life of crime as a kitten stealer. We finally arrived home and Ambrosia was released into the lounge room. At first she refused to leave her prison, despite the fact that she'd been demanding release ever since she'd entered the cat box. I left her to her own devices and she was soon out of the box, slinking around expecting trouble with every tentative step. She soon found it. Juliet (of the famous Mr X and Juliet love story I wrote last time) was still in residence at that time and not yet in season and loving the world. Kitten and grumpy cat were quickly removed from each other's company and peace reigned once again.

When Nefertiti arrived rather than a firm friendship being forged, a kitten war began. Both kittens spat and swore, using language I was shocked to hear that kittens knew, whenever they came face to face. No actual blows occurred though and each kitten preferred to give the other a wide berth. Slowly, day by day, the spitting and swearing receded and sniffs and delicate swats with paws came to the fore. Eventually small games would break out and end just as quickly as two shocked kittens realised they were having fun together. By the end of the week they were firm friends, though their relationship with the two older cats, Tristan and Juliet, was fraught with peril if they got too close.

Juliet eventually returned to her home and just lately Tristan has mellowed where the kittens are concerned and will give them a good morning nose kiss as the kittens emerge from their bedroom (our bathroom) each morning. Tristan has been spotted trying to play with them, but usually just ends up running alongside the game - he's now five years old and well and truly out of practise where kitten games are concerned. Kittens can make a game of just about anything, and an adult cat like Tristan has trouble seeing the fun in swatting the base of a chair or chasing invisible balls, but he tries.

Billy and the ferrets have had quick glances of the kittens but I am not trying to promote a friendship with Billy yet. One good sniff from his huge nose and I'm sure the sniffed kitten would disappear up his nose never to be seen again. The kittens first encountered Billy on one the very hot days when he came inside to share our air conditioning. They couldn't believe their eyes, for that matter neither could Billy. The kittens decided there and then to give him a wide berth and realised quickly that Billy wasn't allowed on the carpet while they were. They now sit under the dining room table staring at him and making him crazy to get nose to nose with them. Something they are determined will never happen.

Ambrosia has had one unfortunate encounter with the ferrets. They too were inside enjoying the cool air when she put her nose through the bars of their cage. Now anyone who owns ferrets will know that if someone new puts any body part through the bars of a ferret cage the resident ferret or ferrets will nip it, just because it's there. Ambrosia was duly nipped and has held a grudge ever since. Eventually, when the kittens are a bit bigger I'll introduce them to the ferrets when the ferrets are set free to roam the house when Graeme is out and about on the farm. The kittens don't realise this is in their future and I'm not telling them.

So, Ambrosia and Nefertiti have settled in. They are still enjoying the halcyon days where Graeme likes them. He pats them occasionally, will allow them to sit on his lap if they jump up and ask nicely and has even been heard to talk to them in a friendly manner. I keep trying to warn them that he'll well and truly go off them when they are larger, less cute cats and will just tolerate their presence in the house, but both girls remain supremely confident that their cuteness will not wear off they they and Graeme will be BFF's. Tristan just smiles knowingly remembering receiving the same treatment when he was a kitten.

As I've mentioned before, Graeme was raised very badly. He never owned a pet of his own in childhood and pets in the family were a rarity anyway. He came to a life of a household filled with pets too late in life to change I'm afraid, but we persevere. I regularly remind him that when he first met me I personally owned a dog, two cats, 10 rats and a galah and within two weeks of going out with me I increased my pet quota with a horse and a pup. He can not say he wasn't well and truly warned!

Mr X & Juliet - A Love Story

2009-12-30T17:01:00.004+11:00

Juliet in her pre-loving the world mood with butter on her paw to encourage her to love us.

Warning: The following story may contain ACO material (suitable for adult cats only to read). If you prefer not to know about cats in season falling in love with totally inappropriate males don't read any further.

Juliet has fallen in love. Sadly her feelings are not reciprocated. The object of Juliet's love is very embarrassed about the whole thing, is not a cat person and would rather not discuss the whole sordid incident, so we'll call him Mr X. I'm sure none of you have the slightest idea who Mr X could be even though Graeme is the only Mr anything in the house.

We are minding Juliet for a few weeks while her real parents, my son Justin and daughter in law Savannah, are on holidays. Juliet is a beautiful Domestic Long Hair tabby cat, about seven or eight months old I think. They had tried to arrange cat sitters closer to home but I think their friends must have had a premonition about what was about to befall us all. At first Juliet wasn't too keen about moving in with us and took quite an aggressive position on the whole "here for a holidays" idea. She hid under chairs, sulked in corners and generally made us all feel guilty about relocating her. She used language no young cat should even know and used it regularly. She swatted and scratched any living creature who came within swatting or scratching range and generally acted like a very feisty hostage. I tried the old "put butter on a cat's paw" trick to see if I could calm her down a bit. She enjoyed the butter, but retained her dark thoughts about us. Little did we know that this was all just PMS.

Even though I'm not totally convinced it's not an old wives tale, I've used this trick successfully on most of my cats when they move in with us and usually, by the time they have finished the tasty treat and cleaned their fur thoroughly they zone out and are at peace with the world.

After Juliet had made sure she'd ruined any chance of Justin and Savannah enjoying their holiday she mellowed a bit. Not much at first, but little things like not trying to shred my hand if I tried to pat her, and refraining from growling threateningly whenever one of us passed her hiding place, began to happen. I hoped that soon she would at least tolerate our presence in her gaol. Almost overnight Juliet's outlook changed and she began to view the world as a good place to be. She began purring and rubbing up against our legs. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, the same mouth that I'd threatened to wash out with soap. She'd hop up on my lap and politely pass the time of day with no references to being held hostage in our discussions. Life with Juliet was looking up.

Then it happened. The reason she'd mellowed became obvious. Juliet was in season. I have only lived with one other female cat in season and it was an experience I never wanted to relive. I had been stuck in a tiny flat with three young cats, one of whom behaved more like a cat possessed than the friendly little tortoiseshell she usually was. Topaz, the cat in question, climbed the blinds, crawled along the carpet on her stomach, tried to bite the heads of the other two female cats who had always been her best friends, and meowed a low moaning meow non stop. The vet, when I rang him, said he couldn't spay her while she was in season, so I hunkered down and rushed her off to the vet's, along with the other two girls, as soon as Topaz was back to her normal self. Having endured that over 30 years ago (it left a deep scar on my psyche as you can see) I wasn't too thrilled about Juliet's delicate condition.

I must say Juliet was a lot more discreet about the whole thing than Topaz ever was. Juliet began by flirting with us both. She would drop to the floor, turn her tail to one side and then roll on her back, making demure little meowing sounds to entice us closer. I took pity on her and patted her or rubbed her tummy and she appeared grateful for these small bits of attention. Then, as the days progressed and we hadn't got passed the patting and tummy rubbing stage of our relationship, she started to prowl the house looking for a boy. Our only male cat these days is The Redhead (Tristan our ginger de-sexed tom). When he arrived home one morning after a night of chasing mice in the grain shed, Juliet met him at the front door, rear end first, tail cocked to the side. She cast him what she felt was an alluring look over her back and gently meowed at him. Poor Tristan backed up as quickly as he could, saying he wasn't that kind of cat! To be fair, I couldn't blame him, Juliet's last welcome had been to attack him with claws out and bad language in place because he had the effrontery to enter his own house. Now, here she was, a Jeckle and Hyde cat who wanted bygones to be bygones. Tristan wasn't having a bar of it.

So, Juliet had to cast her net further in order to find a boy. I can only think what happened next was brought about because she homed in on the only testosterone possessing creature in the house - Mr X. She began her seduction more discreetly this time. At first she wound herself around his legs, tail cocked to the side, and tried to whisper sweet nothings into his ankle. His ear would have been better but it was almost six feet off the ground and Juliet measures about 15" tops on all fours and even lower in what had become her natural tummy on the floor, tail to one side pose. When this got her a little scratch on the head and kind word, Juliet decided to up her seduction techniques a level or two. She began to stalk Mr X. Where ever he was in the house, so was she - purring and flirting. She'd drop to the floor, raise her rear end and give him the come hither look over her shoulder. When Mr X proved to be a slow learner she began marching her back feet up and down while still looking him in the eye and purring demurely.

Mr X finally got the hint but embarrassment was the only emotion Juliet managed to stir in his breast. Mr X tried ignoring her, no longer giving her the little pats and kind words. This had no effect on her pursuit of the new love of her life so Mr X began giving her not so kind words. I found myself retrieving the love struck cat and putting her in another room at regular intervals throughout the day. I'd give her a pat and a tummy rub as consolation, but as far as Juliet was concerned it just wasn't the same thing.

Things came to a head two nights ago. Mr X was sitting at his computer and Juliet was under our bed, plotting her little heart out. After a while she snuck out of the room, and crept into the lounge room. There she eyed her quarry sitting at the other end of the room, concentrating on the computer screen. Juliet sidled up to where Mr X was sitting and gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Nothing. She gave a tiny little mew to announce her presence and still nothing. Finally she jumped up onto his desk and began rolling around on her back professing her undying love. I'm afraid I wasn't much use by this stage. I was rolling around myself, but with laughter. Mr X assumed his now familiar hunted look, picked Juliet up delicately and put her on the floor a few feet away from his seat. He then resumed his computer work. Juliet,ever the optimist, began backing up towards him, rear end in the air as usual and kept backing up until she reached his foot. Mr X didn't even notice. I was still incapacitated with laughter so couldn't step in to retrieve her. Finally I said, "He's just not interested Juliet." Mr X looked up from his computer saw me still doubled up with laughter, looked down and beheld Juliet, up against his foot doing her best to radiate sex appeal from every hair, and he gave me a forlorn, hunted look. He also mumbled something like, "And that's putting it mildly!" to the cat. I took pity on him and once again moved Juliet to another room.

Juliet's stalking continued for another day or so. Mr X found lots of reasons to be out and about on the farm and Juliet sought consolation buy sulking under our bed. Today Juliet is back to her old, non in season, self. She no longer loves the world as she used to. She is back to tolerating my presence but really wanting her own Mum and Dad to come rescue her. She hasn't given Mr X so much as a glance today. He is able to come and go without assaults on his person by a small cat and is much happier for it.

Oh, and please remember - if Mr X ever finds out this got out - you didn't hear it from me. OK?

2009-12-25T06:47:00.000+11:00

Happy Christmas Everyone. From everyone at Spring Rock

Lancelot & Guinevere

2009-12-19T08:16:00.000+11:00

Lancelot taking his job as quilt inspector very seriously.

A few weeks ago I wrote about Lancelot, my black and white cat and his bad behaviour towards the kelpies. Two days ago we found Lancelot curled up under a bush in the garden, dead. He appears to have died in his sleep. It was the day we had booked Guinevere into the vets' to be euthanased because the tumour on her leg had got to the stage where she couldn't cope anymore. Thursday was a very bad day for me. We buried them side by side - together as always.

Lancelot and his sister Guinevere were born on the farm at Spring Rock shortly after we took possession - a housewarming gift from their mother, Mum-Puss, I always thought. It was the first time in about 25 years that we'd had kittens in the family - I usually end up with older cats seeking a new home for some reason or another, and kittens were a novelty for all of us. Both kittens soon wormed their way into my heart despite the fact that Guinevere channelled her feral cat father for the first seven years of her life and hated all human beings on principal.

Lancelot wasn't the brightest cat we've ever met, actually I think he would have won the dumbest cat prize if we'd held a competition. We put his slowness down to Mum-Puss's old age when she had him. He used to constantly bash his head against the glass in the windows when he saw a bird outside, in his efforts to get at it, and my windows aren't even that clean!! It didn't a matter that his first, second, third or thirtieth attempt met with cold, hard glass, he honestly believed that if he kept trying the glass would disappear and he'd be able to bat the bird out of the tree or sky or where ever it was. If he was outside and he saw a bird fly overhead he'd jump up with an outstretched paw, thinking he could bat it out of the sky. Maybe he hoped that's he'd learn to fly too - then watch out birds! Needless to say, bird life at Spring Rock had no worries about Lancelot's presence here too. The bell on his collar was really just for show. Lancelot tried the patience of Mum-Puss regularly and there were lots of ear cuffings and harsh words spoken between the two of them at times, but more often they could be found curled up together with Lancelot enduring yet another face washing session. Lancelot was a gorgeous, affectionate boy who I miss dreadfully.

Guinevere waiting for me to sit down so she can climb on my lap.

Guinevere, as stated, spent the first seven years acting more like a hostage than a member of the family. I would pick her up regularly in an effort to show her I meant no harm, but no sooner was I upright after lifting her, than she struggled to get down. I always let her go straight away, wanting to prove I could be trusted. I'm nothing if not patient. Shortly before Mum-Puss died Guinevere suffered a reversal of opinion about one human at least. After seven years of this, she finally decided to trust me.

At first she would sit on the chair behind me and gently touch her nose to the back of my head. If I moved a fraction of an inch, she was off like a flash. When I passed this first test over and over again, she surprised both of us by climbing down onto my lap for a second. She didn't even have time to sit, she was gone so quickly, but the fact remained that she'd crossed a line that she couldn't take back. I wasn't allowed to move or pat her and slowly she stayed on my lap a bit longer each time until she finally settled down and became my friend. I was allowed to pat and pick her up after that and Guinevere became the most soppy, affectionate cat I've owned. She still hated the rest of the human race mind you, but me she loved. She would regularly insult friends and visitors who would see her nestled on my lap, looking the picture of a cute, affectionate cat, and come over to give her a pat. She would fix them with a glassy stare, rise from my lap, and leave the room with her tail in the air, bristling indignation from every hair. Visitors soon got the message - leave the tabby cat alone. Shower affection on the black and white fellow or the ginger cat, but don't touch the tabby. And that was fine with Guinevere too!

I have to lie down in the middle of the day most days because I have an injury to one of my discs. I usually lie down and read for a while around 1.00 p.m. to rest my back, often nap, and recharge for the afternoon. Guinevere always joined me and chose to have her rest snuggled up against my right side with my arm around her. If I was late lying down, Guinevere would follow me around the house nagging me to come to bed. On the days when I just couldn't afford the time to lie down, Guinevere's day was ruined. She would eventually stalk off to my bed and have her own, solo lie down, but she left me in no doubt that it just wasn't the same. When the two boy cats discovered our resting routine they decided to join in the fun. Guinevere did not approve. If one of the boys beat her to her favourite spot she would tackle the problem in a very pacifistic manner. She wouldn't raise a fuss, show any temper or bad manners. She would just lick them to death. Well, not literally to death, but she'd get them in a headlock and keep washing their face until they could stand it no longer and left my side to seek dryer spots on the bed. Guinevere would then settle in, sigh happily and all would be quiet for the remainder of my rest. Resting without Guinevere just isn't the same.

So, I'd like to say thank you for sharing your beautiful lives with me Lancelot and Guinevere. I will miss you for a long time to come.

Socks And The Ghost

2009-12-13T07:24:00.000+11:00

I'm experimenting with various looks for my blog. I'll try out different backgrounds and colours to see which I prefer and finally settle on some combination. Until then who knows what it will look like when you come back next time!

To give you something to read while I experiment, here is a story about a gorgeous Kelpie I used to own. His name was Socks. I got him as a fully trained working dog who needed a new farm to work. The problem was he was trained to obey whistle commands and I can't whistle. It took us a while to work out our language problems before he became the best working dog I've ever owned. Sadly he would only work for me, which caused Graeme a lot of frustrating hours trying to get Socks to bring the goats in (we owned Angora goats back then) from our very steep, hilly property (we lived on top of a mountain at the time). Socks would just look at Graeme when issued with a command, turn his head sideways as if to say, "Who? Me?" and trot off in the general direction of the goats while making no promise to bring them in. Once out there he'd fain deafness and just wander around the goats, passing the time of day with them and generally ignoring an increasingly irate Graeme. In the interest of Graeme's sanity and Socks' reputation as an outstanding Kelpie, I'd eventually convince Graeme to let me tell Socks what to do, but Graeme always had to try first.

After a few years of living on the mountain I entered university as a mature age student. I was away from home for most of the day most days of the week. The pets all adjusted and found things to amuse themselves while I was gone. When I came home one day I found Socks throwing himself at the glass door, hackles raised and a low threatening growl rumbling away deep in his chest. I pulled him away from the door, but he returned as soon as I let go. Starting to feel a bit scared, I tried the door. It was locked. I moved around to the back door, checking the windows as I went. They were all locked too. This was in the days before mobile phones and I had no near neighbours so the only thing to do was what every stupid heroine in a horror movie does. I opened the door and took a few trepid steps into the house. I nearly fainted when I was almost knocked over from behind.

Socks wasn't allowed inside and had never tried to flout the rule before. He was always content to sit on the veranda and smile at us through the glass door. Today rules were thrown to the wind as Socks almost bowled me over in his effort got get inside and get at whatever it was that had tripped his doggy radar. I took a few calming breaths and tried to follow Socks as best I could. He tore into the lounge room with all the hackles raised on his back growling very low. I was just about ready to make a run for it at this stage, but now that I had access to a phone I held tightly to Socks' collar (he was eager to get to the end of the house for some reason) and phoned my unimaginative husband to tell him all bout Socks and his vendetta against an unseen threat. Graeme's take on this eerie happening? He thought Socks was just being"silly". My description of Sock's killer attitude and raised hackles failed to impress him so I realised defending the house against intruders or ghosts was up to Socks and me.

Very slowly, and I must admit, very reluctantly I gave Socks his head and followed him on his inspection of every room, armed only with my university books in my backpack. Socks stalked past all the doors in the hall, giving a perfunctory sniff just inside each room until he came to our bedroom at the end of the hall. If it was possible for him to raise his hackles higher he did, he stalked into the room and headed for our dressing area where our full length cupboards faced each other. He then threw himself at my mirrored cupboard doors and growled and barked a challenge to whoever or whatever was in there to come out and fight like a dog! I thought he might have been lunging at the dog in the mirror so I opened the side at which he was lunging so the dog disappeared. Socks ignored the closed mirrored part of the cupboard (and the dogs in Graeme's mirrored cupboards opposite mine and dived into the open part of my cupboard. There he proceeded to threaten my clothes and shoes. I could hear him inspecting everything thoroughly, sniffing here and snuffling there, but even after he'd had time to thoroughly go over all my belongings he wouldn't come out of the cupboard. I wrestled him out only to find that he sat down and refused to leave the house voluntarily. Needless to say I was more than happy for him to stay as long as he wanted. By this stage I was a nervous wreck and would gladly have made Socks a bed inside my cupboard if that meant he'd stop spooking me with every growl and suspicious look.

We never did find out what it was about. Socks eventually calmed down enough to be persuaded to leave the house and after a few hours seemed to forget all about whatever it was that had started the whole drama. It took me a bit longer to stop jumping at small noises and seeing things in dark corners. All the windows and doors were locked just the way I had left them and nothing was disturbed anywhere (apart from me!). As for my four cats - they had rushed out of the house the minute Socks rushed in, so they weren't around to tell me their side of the story either.

So I believe one of two things happened. 1. We had a ghost visit who'd said something insulting to Socks as he/she passed through the locked door, or 2. We had a burglar who managed to get by Socks in the first place, came into the house, didn't steal anything and locked up after wards. Maybe he just tried on my clothes before he left - that would explain Socks focusing on my cupboard.

Shadow's Big Night

2009-11-26T08:02:00.000+11:00

I wrote this story in June 2007. Shadow is sadly, no longer with us. She died at the ripe old age of at least 18 and possibly older (she was an adult dog when I rescued her from the shopping mall). I miss her as does Billy. He doesn't have anyone to boss him around anymore/

Warning!!: This story is about abscesses and associated oozings. The descriptions below can get a bit graphic and yucky (a very technical medical term). If you have a weak stomach you might want to skip this story, or at least the first few paragraphs.

Shadow is up for adoption if anyone is interested. In the interest of fair trading Shadow is a very elderly, deaf and blind Silky Terrier type dog. She had an abscess on her face just below her right eye last week. With her furry little face we didn't notice it until is burst and then it was hard to ignore. Bec and Frances spent part of their Christmas vist helping me clean up the little face and needless to say Shadow was less than greatful. I think the purple spray to deter flies and disinfect the wound was the last straw. After a few terse comments about the younger generation of her family getting a bit pushy and disrespectful to elderly lady dogs (she seemed to hold a grudge against the girls, but still love me - after all I'm the one who knows how to work a can opener), she turned her back on them and hobbled away (Shadow alwasy hobbles when she's feeling indignant). I cleaned up the abscess a few more few times over the next few days and it's now looking good (if a red hole in her face covered in purple can be said to be looking good). A few days ago, just to make things interesting, her other eye started weeping and the hair around that eye ended up matting over it like a pirates eye patch. I know Shadow is blind and the matted hair made no difference to her at all other than aesthically, but I duly clipped and cleaned the area, sprayed all available bits of Shadow that I could reach with the purple stuff and left her to it.

That night Graeme came to bed at 11.30 and told me he thought Shadow needed an anitibiotic injection because "she smelled a bit". I got up and investigated and decided that with all her seeping bits it most probably was a good idea. We farmers do these things ourselves, living so far from town we have become proficient in providing quality medical care for our pets (with the vet's expert advice to back us up of course). The vet has prescribed this antibiotic when the abscess first became apparent, it looked like it was time for a followup dose. I loaded up the syringe and popped it into Shadow while she was dozing in her bed. She barely gave a squeek so I congratulated myself on a job well done and went to bed.

About half an hour later, Shadow began to yap. Billy, who thinks that any time Shadow has a disharge (regardless of which end of her is oozing) Shadow is in season, despite the fact that she's been desexed for about 100 years, and he is therefore been banished to the other side of the laundry door where he keeps constant vigil in case the love of his life needs him to slay a dragon or some such small task (now that was an involved sentence wasn't it?!). He immediately gave voice too. If his love was protesting, well then, so would he!!! A high pitched yip was bad enough, add to it a concerned baritone bark and there was not way we were going to get to sleep. I got out of bed and opened the laundry door to see what the problem was. Shadow shot out and went for a drink. Fair enough I thought, maybe the injection made her thirsty. She was definitely moving at a faster speed than she'd managed in the last few days so I thought the injection was working and she was feeling a lot better. I stood on the back porch and waited, and waited and waited. Shadow had decided that now that she was feeling better she'd better catch up on her duties and now was the time to do a perimeter check of the house yard. Billy, ever anxious to help, was keeping close and whispering sweet nothings in Shadow's deaf ears. She must have heard some of what he said, or maybe it was just his doggy breath in her ear that ticked her off, but every now and then, then night air was broken with Shadow's pithy comments about her love struck body guard. Of course, this didn't deter Billy at all. He lives in hope that some day (or in this case night) Shadow will look up at him through her catarct dimmed eyes and realise what a dish he really is. When that day comes Billy wants to be close by so he can take advantage of the moment.

And what was I doing all this time? I was standing on the back porch calling Billy (well there was no point calling Shadow, she couldn't hear me) to no avail. Then my chance came. Shadow's circuits of the yard brough her past the porch steps with Billy close behind. I swooped on her, picked her up and plonked her in the laundry, dusted off my hands with a job well done and returned to bed. Graeme was fast asleep by now so I settled down to join him BUT about fifteen minutes later the yapping and barking resumed. I tried to ignore it but that didn't work. I once again got up and opened the laundry door. Shadow was doing laps of the laundry!!! She stopped to say hello when she realised I was among those present and invited me to join her in a 2 am dance. I delcined. Billy on the other hand was saying that he'd like nothing better than to be allowed in the laundry to partner Shadow in any dance she chose. I grabbed Shadow, gave her some calming pats and a good talking too, more for my benefit than her's, plonked her in her bed, filled a bucket with water so she had no further excuses for disturbing the peace and went to bed. I had toyed with the idea of leaving the laundry door open, but this would have resulted in Billy trying to chat Shadow up all night and Shadow is very vocal in her rejection of his propositions. Her rejections are actually a good deal louder than the yips of joie de vie with which she was piercing the night air.

But that wasn't the last I heard from Shadow by any means. At regular intervals throughout the night, usually just after I'd managed to drift off to sleep again, Shadow again invited me to come and join in her revels. Then Billy would ask to be allowed to join her her revels too. And so half the night passed. Eventually, even Billy grew tired of Shadow's celebrations and he moved to the front porch to catch up on his beauty sleep. Graeme, who is deaf in one ear, simply put his good ear firmly into the pillow and had no problem staying asleep. I on the other hand, heard every yip throughout the night. When it finally came time to get up, Shadow was only yipping once every now and then, but still enough to make sure my sleep was very, very disturbed. I let her out of the laundry with a few well chosen words to send her on her way, all of which she ignored.

And how did Shadow spend the rest of her day? Sleeping of course. After such a busy night, a girl has to catch up on her beauty sleep after all.

Billy Gets a Pedicure

2009-11-23T10:34:00.000+11:00

Billy resting after his ordeal

Every summer Billy starts collecting grass seeds between his toes (read about De-grass seeding Billy here http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/06/de-grass-seeding-billy.html ). The best way to counteract this habit of his is to give him a pedicure at the beginning of spring. As are most things Billy doesn’t enjoy, it’s a two person job. This year Graeme was very ill around the optimal pedicure time followed closely by me catching Graeme’s bug. Crawling around on the concrete laundry floor attached to Billy while he tried to hide all four paws at the same time just didn’t appeal to us until we had completely regained our strength, so Billy had ample time to go out and stock up on grass seeds.

The fateful day arrived and we gathered our instruments of torture (electric clippers and a pair of hair dressing scissors), invited Billy into the laundry while carefully concealing said instruments of torture, and quickly locked the door after him. As soon as his avenue of escape was blocked Billy started to suspect something was up, especially seeing Graeme was in the laundry too. Our one and only toilet is located in the laundry and Graeme is very strict about not sharing this experience with Billy. When Graeme enters the laundry Billy is told to leave! So something sinister was definitely afoot (literally).

The first thing we needed was Billy lying down on the floor. Experience has shown that trimming Billy’s toes while he’s standing just isn’t a good idea. Billy leans, and when Billy leans his massive body on someone they know they are being leaned on. The usual outcome for someone being lent on by Billy is to fall in a heap on the floor. Billy then feels very sorry for his latest victim and stands over him or her and worries that you might not have appreciated being leaned on. This wouldn’t be too bad, except that Billy usually has strings of drool hanging down and these tend to be shared with the leaned on vicitim. Graeme tried his sheep dropping technique to get Billy to lie down. To accomplish this Graeme reaches under Billy’s tummy and grabs Billy’s front and back leg furthest from him. Billy immediately drops to the ground, unlike when I try the same technique solo and I’m the one that is dropped to the ground. As soon as the St Bernard hit the floor I dived on his head and held the sides of his face, murmuring words of encouragement and love, even though Billy is now stone deaf and can’t hear a word I’m saying. Billy watched me with wrapped attention as if he was soaking up every word, but what he was actually doing was trying to get me to rub his ears, head or any other part of him I could reach.

Graeme had begun the toe shaving as soon as I had Billy’s massive head in a strong hold. Billy gave me a hurt look as if to say, “I thought you were here for a love fest and now I find you are working in league with the master torturer!” I apologised profusely and explained that it was all for his own good. This got me nowhere because, as stated above, Billy is stone deaf. I then had to endure reproachful looks from Billy while Graeme played Catch That Foot at the other end. Billy wouldn’t leave his foot in Graeme’s possession if there was any chance of removing it and hiding it under his body. At first Graeme would wrestle Billy and retrieve the foot he’d been working on. When this grew old, Graeme resorted to attacking any foot not tucked under the 70kg dog instead of going after the foot he’d been working on. Billy can’t hide all four paws under himself at the same time, no matter how hard he tries so there was always at least one foot available for clipping.

Once Graeme had finished with the front paws I decided to help by trimming the undergrowth around Billy’s pads. This required letting go of his face, but by now Graeme had a good hold of a back leg and I remained vigilant in case I needed to grab Billy’s head in an emergency (Billy turning his head to help Graeme is considered a major emergency in this procedure). Once I began snipping the lush growth of hair between Billy’s pads, Billy joined in and nosed my hand away from his foot every time I managed to get the scissors near his foot. Sometimes I was quick enough to snip some hair, other times I was too slow and no clipping was accomplished. I was hampered by the fact I was trying very hard not to snip Billy’s nose when he moved in to remove my hand and scissors from the general area of his foot. Billy took unfair advantage of this and won more rounds than I did.

Finally Billy’s feet were shaved and trimmed. One thing I noted about Billy’s shaved feet. Usually when a rough coated dog is clipped you find there’s not much dog under there. They look to be about a quarter of their size pre-clipping. Not so with Billy’s feet. They look just as huge bare as they do covered in fur. Billy was not impressed with this new streamline look and tried to escape to go hide his feet until the hair grew back. We’d found a few little holes in his feet where grass seeds had dug in and wanted to spray those spots to prevent any infections, so, while I once again held Billy in a headlock, Graeme sprayed The Purple Stuff between Billy’s toes. This was the final indignity and Billy had had enough. He rose from the floor with me hanging on and totally unable to keep him down, and headed for the closed door. I gave up and let go. Billy then stood at the door, turned his head to give us one of his best long suffering looks and waited for me to open the door for him. Suitably chastened I did. Without a backward glance at us Billy summoned all his dignity and left the room.

Unfortunately he had to walk past the ferret cage to go sit in the shade and brood. The four ferrets were lined up along the cage as they always are when Billy is being held against his will. They know bad things are happening to Billy and they are all for it! As Billy walked past the ferret cage I’m sure I heard pointed comments about purple toes and naked feet. The ferrets deny it, but Billy and I both know the truth.

A close up of Billy's shaved foot before the purple spray was added. This is embarrassing enough for poor Billy I didn't want to photograph the graffitied foot.

Billy & Emu BFF - Well Maybe ...

2009-11-10T08:33:00.002+11:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lancelot The Scourge Of The Kelpies

2009-10-25T09:27:00.004+11:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hail!

2009-09-27T06:56:00.003+10:00

Hail as far as the eye can see

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

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

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

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

The birds in the aviary were a different matter entirely.

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

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

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

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

I Think Our Ram Has Learned His Lesson

2009-08-29T07:43:00.004+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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